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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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/^hte^^L^^  >^L  f»^  <■ 


r^3. 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS 


Scottish  and  American. 


Wnu  Tiiograt^hiciil  .///,/  Critical  Notice'.. 


BY 

JOHN    D.    ROSS,    LL.  D. 

'*"'%''dectf""and  "%!>«?  nf'^rA'f'    ''Rfndom  Sketches  on  Scottish 

Ciuojects,      ana  hditpr  of  ''Celebrated  Songs  of  Scotland." 

''Round  Burns^  Grave"    "Highland  Mary:'    u^^// 

about  Burns,"    "The  Burns  Scrap  Book," 

"Burnstana,"  "Burns'  Clarinda," 

etc.,  etc. 


The  grandest   chariot   wherein    King   thoughts^*'Xde._ALEX.    Smith. 


NEW    YORK : 
WALTER    W     REID,    Publisher. 

1897. 


r 


ir 


DEDICATED    TO 

CHAUNCBY    M.    DEPEW,    LL.    D., 

A   LOVER  OF  UTERATURE,   SCIENCE  AND  ART, 
A  WARM-HEARTED  GENTI^EMAN 

AND  ONE  OF  THE 

FOREMOST   REPRESENTATIVE    AMERICANS 

OF  OUR  TIME. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

—  Anderson,   Rkv    Duncan,   m.  A --q 

Anderson,  Wiixiam  . 

'        *        *        •        •  35* 

Bruce,  Hon.  Waij.ace  ... 

C01.1.INS,  Hon.  Chas.  H.      .  <^ 

09 

■*   Imrie,  John 

•^  225 

*•  James,  Wii^ijam  T.       .        .  „ 

Law,  James  D. 

•        • 204 

Leggktt,  Benjamin  ^.  Ph.  D o 

-  ivUCKHART,  Rev.  Arti'ur  John      . 

*  •         •         •         ^3^ 

^  Lockhart,  Rev.  Burton  VV.,  I)  D 

273 

MacCuij,och,  Hunter    .  . 

•  •       •       .        I 07 

*--  Macfari^ane,  John 

•^  309 

Macpherson,  Hector    .        .  ^, 

■        •        •        •        •        290 

MacPherson,  Patrick 

...  30 

«-  Martix,  George     . 

152 

Reekie,  Chari.es 

362 

*-    Reid,  Robert  . 

247 

—    Ross,  Rev.  Archibald        .  o 

40 

Ross,  Peter,  L.  L.  D g^ 

Shaw,  Ralph  H. 

112 

^    Smith,  Rev.  William  Wvi;   . 

324 

"•   Smvthe,  Albert  P).  s. 

340 

Williamson,  George     . 

•         •  97 


L_    (a^ny^^ 


Chx, 


HON.  WALLACE  BRUCE. 


Distinguished  on  the  roll  of  American  poets  of 
the  present  century  stands  the  name  of  Wallace 
Bruce.  An  accomplished  scholar,  a  brilliant  orator, 
a  voluminous  reader  and  an  able  critic,  he  combines 
with  these  artistic  qualities  the  feelings  and  taste 
and  imagination  of  a  true  poet,  and  many  of  his  pro- 
ductions through  their  exquisite  beauty  have  lent  a 
lustre  to  the  poetical  literature  of  our  country,  and 
are  destined  to  live,  and  thus  become  a  monu- 
ment to  his  genius  long  after  he  has  passed  to  his 
final  reward. 

His  is  indeed  a  muse  of  surpassing  sweetness  and 
excellence  and  power,  and,  to  his  credit  be  it  said, 
there  is  not  a  line  or  a  verse  which  he  has  penned 
that  he  need  ever  wish  to  blot  out.  As  we  glance 
leisurely  through  his  poems  we  find  here  and  there 
realistic  touches  of  the  fascinating  beauty  of  Tenny- 
.son,  the  quaint  simplicity  of  Wordsworth,  the  ex- 
uberant humor  of  Butler,  the  dramatic  strength  of 
Shakespeare,  the  divine  loftiness  of  Milton,  the 
sturdy  independence  of  Burns,  the  weird  charms  of 
Coleridge,  the  gentleness  of  Whittier,  the  melody  of 
Moore,  the  picturesqueness  of  Chaucer,  and  the 
vivid  descriptive  power  of  Byron.  His  language  is 
choice  and  appropriate,  the  expression  dignified,  the 


wm 


lO 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


similies  striking,  the  versification  harmonious,  while 
the  subjects  are  invariably  interestinjj  and  instructive. 
Truly  an  orij^^inal  and  pleasing  and  inspired  singer 
in  all  respects.  Where  all  is  so  uniformly  good  it 
becomes  a  difficult  matter  to  select  pieces  for  quota- 
tion, especially  when  these  pieces  must  necessarily 
be  short  ones  and  our  author's  talents  are  always 
displayed  to  better  advantage  in  his  longer  composi- 
tions. Here  is  one  however  that  will  serve  as  an 
introduction  : 


THK   SNOW   ANGEI,. 

The  sleigh-bells  danced  that  winter  night ; 

Old  Brattlcborough  rniig  with  glee  ; 
The  windows  overflowed  with  light ; 

Joy  ruled  each  hearth  and  Christmas  tree. 
But  to  one  the  bells  and  tnirth  were  naught ; 
His  soul  with  deeper  joy  was  fraught. 

He  waited  until  the  guests  were  gone, 

He  waited  to  dream  his  dream  alone  ; 
And  the  night  wore  on. 


Alone  he  stands  in  the  silent  night ; 

He  piles  the  snow  in  the  village  square  ; 
With  spade  for  chisel,  a  statue  white 

From  the  crystal  quarry  rises  fair. 
No  light,  save  the  stars,  to  guide  his  hand, 
But  the  image  obeys  his  soul's  command. 

The  sky  is  draped  with  fleecy  lawn, 

The  stars  grow  pale  in  the  early  dawn. 
And  the  lad  toils  on. 


HON.   WALLACE  BRUCE. 


n 


And  lo  !  in  the  morn  the  people  came 

To  gaze  at  the  wondrous  vision  there  ; 
And  they  called  it  "The  Angel,"  divining  its  name, 

For  it  came  in  silence  and  unaware. 
It  seemed  no  mortal  hand  had  wrought 
The  uplifted  face  with  prayerful  thought ; 

But  its  features  wasted  beneath  the  sim  ; 

Its  life  went  out  ere  the  day  was  done  ; 
And  the  lad  dreamed  on. 

And  his  dream  was  this  :    In  the  years  to  be 

I  will  carve  the  angel  in  lasting  stone  ; 
In  another  land  ;  beyond  the  sea, 

I  will  toil  in  darkness,  will  dream  alone  ; 
While  others  sleep  I  will  find  a  way 
Up  through  the  night  to  the  light  of  day. 

There's  nothing  desired  beneath  star  or  sun 

Which  patient  genius  has  not  won  ; 
And  the  boy  toiled  on. 

The  years  go  by.     He  has  wrought  with  might ; 

He  has  gained  renown  in  the  land  of  art ; 
liut  the  thought  inspired  that  Christmas  night 

Still  kept  its  place  in  the  sculptor's  heart ; 
And  the  dream  of  the  boy,  that  melted  away 
In  the  light  of  the  sun  that  winter  day. 

Is  emlx)died  at  last  in  enduring  stone, 

Snow  /ingel  in  marble — his  purpose  won  ; 
And  the  man  toils  on. 


"Wallace  Bruce  touches  smoothly  and  sweetly 
chords  that  have  an  echo  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic,"  said  the  Edinburgfh  Scotsman  in  reviewing 
his  poems,  and  the   (ilasgow  Herald  concluded   an 


12 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


!i 


extended  notice  of  his  merits  by  saying^,  '*  His  verse 
thrills  with  fine,  free-flowing,  vigorous  spirit,  which 
imparts  to  it  that  feeling  of  reality  and  freshnesss 
that  gives  to  the  poetry  of  Burns  its  permanent 
attraction."  "  Keenly  alive  to  the  beautiful,"  says 
the  Birmingham  Gazette,  "  whether  in  art  or  nature 
or  in  home  life,"  while  the  Saturday  Review  declares 
that  there  is  to  be  found  in  his  writings  ''freshness 
and  power  and  a  certain  open-air  flavor  at  no  time 
common  to  writers  of  verse."  The  Rev.  Henry 
Ward  Beecher  claimed  that  his  poetry,  "  by  its  merit 
and  beauty  made  its  way  to  all  eyes  and  hearts,"  and 
Mr.  Gladstone,  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  one  cf 
his  volumes,  wrote  :  "  The  outward  form  is  beauti- 
ful, and  my  first  acquaintance  with  the  contents  is  in 
harmony  therewith." 

As  a  poet,  Mr.  Bruce  is  endowed  with  a  great 
command  of  language  and  abundance  of  rhyme. 
His  verses  flow  naturally  and  mu.sically,  and  we  be- 
come interested  in  them  at  once.  The  following 
poem,  entitled  "The  protest  of  the  Immortals," 
may  be  given  as  a  specimen  of  this.  It  was  recited 
by  Mr.  Bruce  at  a  banquet  of  the  Edinburgh  Pen 
and  Pencil  Club,  and  was  not  only  well  received 
then  but  was  much  spoken  of  and  quoted  by  the 
Scottish  press  at  the  time  : 


A  singular  meeting  the  other  night ! 

Did  you  hear  of  it  up  at  Parliament  Hall  ? 
Just  twelve  o'clock  the  moon  shone  bright ; 


HON.   WALLACE  BRUCE, 


'3 


A  strange,  weird  brilliancy  flooded  all 

The  rich-stained  windows ;  the  portraits  there 
The  spectral  radiance  seemed  to  share 

I  followed  the  crowd,  a  ghastly  throng, 

A  curious  group  of  former  days  ; 
As  through  the  portal  it  surged  along 
Familiar  faces  met  my  gaze, 
As  if  the  library  down  below 
Had  yielded  its  worthies  for  public  show. 

In  close  procession,  a  hundred  or  more  ; 

But  it  seemed  so  strange,  no  voice  or  word. 
No  footfall  on  the  oaken  floor  ; 
An  old  time  Provost  proffered  a  word, 
A  motion  forsooth,  for  then  and  there 
Sir  Walter  responded  and  took  the  chair. 

He  seemed  full  pale  as  he  rose  to  speak, 

And  bowed  his  head  to  the  eager  crowd. 
But  a  flush  forthwith  illumed  his  cheek. 
Erect  his  form,  which  erst  was  bowed ; 
Intent  on  the  Wizard  seemed  to  be 
That  strange,  peculiar  company. 

I  noted  expressions  of  scorn  and  pride 

Vividly  flashed  from  face  to  face  ; 
The  minstrel  dashed  a  tear  aside, 
Ai^ptaling,  it  seemed,  to  the  Scottish  race  ; 
Aye  more,  each  gesture  seemed  to  be 
For  his  darling  city  a  loving  plea. 


I  saw  him  point  to  the  legend  there 

Emblazoned  upon  the  windows  high  ; 
To  the  Crown  that  Scotia  used  to  wear 


It      < 


H 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


When  her  heroes  dared  to  do  or  die  : 
And  he  seemed  to  say,  '•  Edina's  crown 
Shall  not  for  gold  be  trampled  down." 

All  hands  went  up  at  the  table  round, 

Where  sat  Kit  North  with  flowing  quill, 
And  the  sentences  seemed  to  leap  and  bound 
Like  living  sparks  from  his  sturdy  will — 
A  protest  deep,  a  trumpet  word 
Straight  from  the  heart,  for  his  soul  was  stirred. 

A  moment's  pause  ;  they  were  asked  to  sign  ; 

But  who  would  lead  that  famous  band  ? 
Who  on  the  roll  of  auld  lang  syne, 
Prince  or  peasant,  thus  dared  to  stand  ? 
With  one  accord  the  gathering  turns. 
And  straightway  summoned  Robert  Burns. 

He  came,  and  proudly  wrote  his  name, 
The  clear,  bold  hand,  beloved  by  all. 
And  there  seemed  to  burst  a  loud  acclaim 
That  shook  the  roof  of  the  stately  hall. 
His  plain  sign-manual  seemed  to  say — 
We  guard  "Auld  Reekie  "  from  wrong  to-day. 


Shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  steady  file, 

I  noted  them  all  as  they  passed  along — 
Dugald  Stewart  and  stern  Carlyle, 
Riddell  and  Lockhart,  of  Border  song. 
Professor  Aytoun  and  dear  John  Brown, 
Brougham  and  Erskine,  in  wig  and  gown  ; 

Hugh  Millar  and  Pollok,  Mackenzie,  Blair, 

Cockburn,  Jeffrey,  and  David  Hume, 
Hogg  and  Ramsay — a  curious  pair. 


HON.   WALLACE  BRUCE. 


'5 


De  Quincey,  "  Delta  "  in  noni-de-plume, 
Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  Boswell,  Home, 
Fergusson,  Allison — still  they  come. 

They  stood  in  groups,  the  roll  was  done  ; 
The  chairman  rose,  they  listened  all ; 
St.  Giles  pealed  out  the  hour  of  one, 
They  took  their  way  from  the  silent  hall ; 
Over  the  parchment  alone  I  bent — 
It  seemed  like  the  League  and  Covenant. 

I  read  it  there  in  the  fading  light, 

A  message  strange  from  the  shadowy  past, 
With  storied  names  for  ever  bright 
While  Scotland's  fame  and  glory  last ; 
The  ink  on  that  parchment  shall  never  fade 
Till  Arthur's  Seat  in  the  Forth  is  laid. 

"  Stand  by  your  city  and  guard  it  well — 

That  street  is  more  than  a  common  wynd 
For  smoking  chimneys  and  sooty  smell ; 
Has  Plutus  made  your  guardians  blind  ? 
What  god  your  senses  has  so  beguiled 
That  Art  and  Nature  shall  be  defiled  ?" 


So  said  Kit  North  :  and  I  read  with  joy — 
"  Stand  by  your  city  and  guard  it  well ; 
For  a  mess  of  pottage,  or  base  alloy. 
Who  dare  your  birthright  or  beauty  sell  ? 
Never  !  ah,  never  !  Edina  mine, 
Shall  force  or  foliy  thy  virtue  tyne. 

'*  Stand  by  your  city  and  guard  it  well ; 

Burrow  in  rocks  for  your  tunnelled  ways, 
TaL.t  not  the  soil  with  carbon  fell, 


i6 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


The  flowers  of  the  sod  where  the  sunlight  plays." 
No  wonder  the  hall  with  wild  applause 
Greeted  the  reading  of  every  clause. 

"  Stand  by  your  city  and  guard  it  well  ; 

Greed  is  mighty,  but  truth  prevails  ; 
Let  not  your  children's  children  tell 
How  beauty  was  bartered  for  iron  rails." 
Such  was  the  meeting  in  Parliament  Hall — 
"  Nemo  impune  !"     Guard  us  all. 


The  entire  poem  proves  that  Mr.  Bruce  has  a  very 
sincere  regard  for  Scotland,  the  home  of  his  ancestors. 
He  delights  to  talk  and  lecture  on  her  heroes,  her 
poets,  her  statesmen  and  her  preachers,  and  he  loves 
her  old  traditions,  her  ballads,  her  songs,  her  litera- 
ture and  her  customs,  with  a  love  that  is  hardly  sur- 
passed even  by  a  native-born  Scotsman.  This  love 
for  Scotland  and  all  things  Scottish  is  visible  in 
nearly  all  his  writings  and  it  was  therefore  a  gratify- 
ing and  appropriate  compliment  to  Mr.  Bruce  when 
President  Harrison  appointed  him  United  States 
Consul   at   Edinburgh. 

I  now  take  pleasure  in  appending  another  poem 
on  a  Scottish  subject  and  one  which  I  think  all 
readers  will  admire.  The  poem  is  thoroughly  Scot- 
tish in  tone  and  expression,  besides  being  so  well 
written  that  any  Scottish  poet  would  be  pleased 
could  he  say  that  he  was  the  author  of  it. 


HON.    WALLACE  BRUCE, 


t? 


INCH-CAILLIACH,    LOCH   LOMOND. 

[The  islaud  burial-place  of  Clan  Alpine,  resembling,  from  Rossdhu,  a  re- 
clining body  with  folded  amis.] 

No  more  Clan  Alpine's  pibroch  wakes' 

Loch  Lomond's  hills  and  waters  blue  ; 
"  Hail  to  the  Chief"  no  longer  breaks 

The  quiet  sleep  of  Roderick  Dhu ; 
Enwrapped  in  peace  the  islands  gleam 

Like  emerald  gem  in  sapphire  set, 
And,  far  away,  as  in  a  dream, 

Float  purple  fields  where  heroes  met. 

Inch-Cailliach — islaud  of  the  blest ! 

Columbia's  daughter,  passing  fair. 
With  folded  arms  upon  her  breast. 

Rests  soft  in  sunset  radiance  there ; 
A  vision  .sweet  of  fond  Elaine, 

And  floating  barge  of  Camelot, 
Upon  her  brow  no  trace  of  pain, 

And  on  her  heart  ' '  Forget  me  not. ' ' 


Forget  thee,  saintly  guardian  ?    Nay, 

From  the  distant  lands  across  the  sea 
To  this  lone  Isle  I  fondly  stray 

With  song  and  garland  fresh  for  thee ; 
I  trace  the  old  inscriptions  dear. 

Fast  fading  now  from  mortal  ken, 
And  through  the  silver  lichens  peer 

To  read  McAlpine's  name  again. 

My  mother's  name,  a  sacred  link 
Which  binds  me  to  the  storied  past ; 

A  rainbow  bridge  from  brink  to  brink 
Which  spnns  with  light  the  centuries  vast. 


i^ 


i8 


rl  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Two-hundred  years  !    Clan  Alpine's  pine 

Has  struck  its  roots  in  other  lands ; 
My  pulses  thrill  to  trace  the  sign 

And  touch  the  cross  with  reverent  hands. 

All  ruin  here  ! — the  shrine  is  dust, 

The  chapel  wall  a  shapeless  mound  ; 
But  Nature  guards  with  loving  trust, 

And  ivy  twines  her  tendrils  round 
The  humble  slab,  more  fitting  far 

Than  gilded  dome  for  Scotia's  line  ; 
The  open  sky  and  northern  star 

Become  the  chieftains  of  the  pine. 

The  light  streams  out  from  fair  Rossdhu 

Across  the  golden-tinted  wave  ; 
That  crumbling  keep,  that  ancient  yew, 

StiU  mark  a  worthy  foeman's  grave ; 
But  warm  the  hearts  that  now  await 

Our  coming  at  the  open  door. 
With  love  and  friendship  at  the  gate. 

And  beacon-lights  along  the  shore. 

Dear  Scotia  !  evermore  more  dear 

To  loyal  sons  in  every  land ; 
Strong  in  a  race  that  knew  no  fear, 

And  for  man's  freedom  dared  to  stand  ; 
Ay,  dearer  for  thy  songs  that  float 

Like  thistle-down  o'er  land  and  sea, 
And  strike  the  universal  note 

Of  love,  and  faith  and  liberty. 

Mr.  Rowland  B.  Mahany,  writing  of  Mr.  Bruce 
in  The  Magazine  of  Poetry  says  :  •'  It  is  as  a  poet, 
however,  that  his  genius   shines  with   the   greatest 


HON.   WALLACE  BRUCE. 


19 


lustre.     Disregarding  the  mannerisms  and  conceits 
of  the  present  school,  whose  productions  are  at  best 
but  ephemeral,  he  has  held  fast  to  old  standards,  and 
struck  a  tone  whose  echo  is  destined  to  vibrate  in  the 
hearts  of  listeners,  now  and  hereafter.     No  American 
poet  of  this  generation,  not  even  Whittier,  has  set 
to  sweeter   music   the   tender  memories  of  home. 
Without  the  broad  effects  of  Will  Carleton   or  the 
stilted  moralizing  of   Longfellow,  Wallace   Bruce's 
"Old   Homestead    Poems,"  have  that  delicacy  of 
fancy,  sincerity  of  expression,  and  depth  of  feeling 
which  give  fitting  utterance  to   the  vague   sanctity 
with  which  we  hallow  the  past.     The  same  truthful- 
ness of  motive  is  characteristic  of  all  his  verses,  even 
when  his  abounding  humour  ripples  into  song.     This 
nobility  of  purpose  and  excellence  of  execution  are 
the  qualities   which  make  those   familiar  with   his 
work  enthusiastic   admirers.       His    shorter    lyrics, 
published  in  the  leading  magazines,  have  always  been 
widely  praised  and  copied  ;  and  the  fervent  patriotism 
that  pulsates  through  his  poems  has  caused  his  selec- 
tion as  poet  on  many  distinguished  occasions,  notably 
at  the  Newburgh  Centennial,  over  which  President 
Arthur  presided,  and  at  which  Senator  Evarts  and 
Senator  Bayard  were  the  chief  orators.     The  success 
of  **The  Long  Drama,"  read  by  Mr.  Bruce,  was  by 
common   consent   the  triumph  of  the  celebration." 
Patriotism  is  certainly  another  predominating  fea- 
ture in  many  of  Mr.  Bruce's  poems.     It  is  introduced 
and  interwoven  into  his  verses  with  gre  it  skill  and 


T 


jy> 


A  CI.  I V  TER  OF  I\  )H  TS. 


always  commands  our  admiration.  Nor  are  his 
efforts  in  this  direction  confined  to  America  alone. 
Wherever  the  bugle  has  sounded  in  the  cause  of 
liberty  and  right,  that  country  has  become  sacred 
ground  to  him.  But  his  patriotism  is  never  boister- 
ous or  unpoetical.  It  is  set  forth  clothed  in  the  finest 
of  language  and  very  guarded  in  expression,  so  as 
to  give  offence  to  no  one.  The  follov»ring  poem,  be- 
sides being  one  of  his  best,  will  give  a  good  idea  of 
this  particular  fejiture  of  his  muse  : — 


"UNO  DE   MIIvLE." 

[One  April  day  in  1890  I  saw  a  steamer  draped  in 
black  bring  home  to  Como  for  burial  a  soldier  of  the 
immortal  One  Thousand  of  Garibaldi.  By  a  strange 
and  dramatic  coincidence  his  comrade,  an  eloquent 
scholar  of  Como,  died  a  few  hours  later  at  his  desk, 
while  preparing  for  the  morrow  a  tribute  to  his 
friend's  memory,  and  on  the  next  day  the  boat  bore 
his  own  body  to  his  own  kindred. — W.   B.J 


Another  gone  of  the  thousand  brave  ; 
Across  Lake  Como  borne  to  his  grave. 
"  Uno  de  Mille."  they  softly  say, 
Waiting  there  by  the  quiet  bay  ; 
A  crowdetl  plaza,  a  weeping  sky — 
Hu.sli !  the  steamer  is  drawing  nigh, 

•'  Uno  de  Mille  !"     Who  is  he  ? 
A  soldier,  they  whisper,  of  liberty ; 
One  of  the  thousand  from  College  hall 


HON.   WALLACE  HRVCE. 


»/ 


Who  rallied  nt  Garibaldi's  call  : 

His  voyage  finisliLMl,  the  anchor  cast, 

Home  at  Como  to  sleep  at  last. 

Home,  by  her  rippliii)^  waters  blue, 
Mir  Hiring  skies  of  tender  hue  ; 
Home,  where  a  kinsman's  lioart-felt  tear 
Hallows  a  brother  soldier's  bier  ; 
Home,  where  a  noble  comrade  now 
Plaits  a  chaplet  to  grace  his  brow. 

Strew  with  roses  the  hero's  way. 
Over  the  sleeping  warrior  i)ray  ; 
Home,  from  journeying  far  and  wide, 
Welcome  him  here  with  stately  pride  ; 
The  night,  my  brother,  comes  to  me, 
The  morn,  Italia,  to  thee  ! 

Strew  with  roses  the  hero's  way. 
Over  the  .sleeping  warrior  i)ray  ; 
Wake,  Italia  !  speak  for  me, 
Reunited  from  sea  to  sea, 
I'lace  a  garland  ui>on  his  bier, 
"  Uno  de  Mille  "  is  lying  here. 

Thus  mused  his  comrade  through  the  night, 
Weaving  a  chaplet  fresh  and  bright, 
Sorrowing  for  a  brother  dead, 
Summoning  hours  forever  fled  ; 
The  light  burns  dim,  the  dawning  day 
Touches  the  mountains  cold  and  gray. 


The  pen  has  fallen  from  his  grasp, 
His  head  is  bowed,  his  hands  unclasp  ; 
The  sunlight  pierces  the  casement  there  ; 


22 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


He  greets  the  morning  with  stony  stare  ; 
The  day,  Italia,  breaks  for  thee  ! 
The  night,  my  brother,  comes  to  me. 

Not  as  he  flecmed.     He  little  thought 

The  morrow's  work  would  be  unwrought, 

Little  he  dreamed  the  boat  that  bore, 

His  comrade  dead  to  Como's  shore. 

Dark -draped  its  homeward  course  would  keep 

To  bear  him,  too,  where  his  kinsmen  sleep. 

Hushed  again  the  crowded  square, 
Sky  and  lake  the  stillness  share  ; 
Over  the  mountains  a  fading  glow, — 
*'  Duo  de  Mille,"  they  murmur  low  : 
One,  with  tapers  in  yonder  dome. 
One,  'neath  the  starlight,  going  home. 

And  so  they  parted,  not  in  tears, 
Wedded  in  death  through  coming  years  ; 
Sleeping  remote  by  the  sunny  shore, 
Reunited  for  ever  more  ! 
Ivake  Como  sings  one  song  to  me — 
"  The  morn,  Italia,  to  thee  ! 

Here  also  is  a  touching-  little  poem  on  the  death 
of  Generol  Grant,  and  in  which  the  same  quiet 
patriotic  feeling  will  be  noticed.  The  poem  is 
founded  on  the  following-  incident.  It  is  said  that 
when  Grant  was  dying  a  ray  of  sunlight  through  the 
half-closed  shutters  of  his  room  fell  upon  Lincoln's 
picture,  leaving  the  general's  portrait,  which  himg 
beside  it,  in  deep  shadow.  After  lingering  for  a 
moment  on  the  brow  of  the  martyred  President  it 


HON.    WALLACE  HRUCE. 


33 


passed  at  the  instant  of  death  and  played  upon  the 
portrait  of  the  j^reat  soldier. 

THE  Sir^RNT  SOLDIKR. 

Prom  gulf  to  lake,  from  sea  to  sea, 
The  land  is  draped — a  nation  weeps, 

And  o'er  the  bier  bows  reverently 
Whereon  the  silent  soldier  sleeps. 

The  mountain  top  is  bathed  in  light. 
And  eastern  cliff  with  outlook  wide  ; 

Its  name  shall  live  in  memory  bright — 
The  Mount  MacGregor,  where  he  died  ! 

A  monument  to  stand  for  aye. 

In  sumtner's  bloom,  in  winter's  snows, 

A  shrine  where  men  shall  come  to  pray, 
While  at  its  base  the  Hudson  flows. 

A  humble  room,  the  light  burns  low. 
The  morning  breaks  on  distant  hill, 

The  falling  pulse  is  beating  slow. 
The  group  waf,  motionless  and  still. 

Two  portraits  hang  upon  the  wall. 
Two  kindred  pictures  side  by  side — 

Statesman  and  soldier,  loved  by  all — 
Lincoln  and  Grant,  Columbia's  pride. 


A  single  ray  through  lattice  streams, 
And  breaks  in  rainbow  colours  there  ; 

On  Lincoln's  brow  a  glory  gleams. 
As  wife  and  childr-^n  kneel  in  prayer. 


r 


i; 


if 

8!; 


^'Z 


^  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


A  halo  round  the  martyr's  head, 

It  lights  the  sad  and  solemn  room, 
Above  the  living  and  the  dead, 

The  soldier's  portrait  hangs  in  gloom. 

In  shadow  one,  and  one  in  light ; 

But  look  !  the  pencil-ray  has  past, 
And  on  the  hero's  picture  bright 

The  golden  sunlight  rests  at  last. 

And  so,  throughout  the  coming  years. 
On  both  the  morning  beam  shall  play, 

When  the  long  night  of  bitter  tears 
Has  melted  in  the  light  away. 

A  liio^hly  moral  and  religious  sentiment  pervades 
all  of  Mr.  Bruce's  work,  and  this  characteristic  makes 
his  writings  all  the  more  acceptable  to  readers  of 
intelligence  and  refinement.  Indeed,  many  of  his 
smaller  poems  are  on  religious  subjects  entirely,  and 
each  of  them  gives  strong  evidence  that  their  author 
is  a  man  who  has  a  sincere  reverence  for  his  Maker 
and  for  all  things  holy.  A  brief  specimen  may  be 
given : 

THR   STRANGER. 
AN   EASTERN  l,KGKND. 

An  aged  man  came  late  to  Abraham's  tent  ; 

The  sky  was  dark,  and  all  the  plain  was  bare. 
He  asked  for  bread  ;  his  strength  was  well  nigh  spent. 

His  haggard  look  implored  the  tenderest  care. 
The  food  was  brought.     He  sat  with  thankful  eyes, 

But  spake  no  grace,  nor  bowed  he  toward  the  east. 
Safe-sheltered  here  from  dark  and  angry  skies, 


HON.   WALLACE  BRUCE, 


»5 


The  bounteous  table  seemed  a  royal  feast. 
But  ere  his  hand  had  touched  the  tempting  fare, 

The  Patriarch  rose,  and,  leaning  on  his  rod, 
"  Stranger,"  he  said,  dost  thou  not  bow  in  prayer  ? 

Dost  thou  not  fear,  dost  thou  not  worship  God  ?  " 
He  answered,  "Nay."     The  Patriarch  sadly  said  : 

"Thou  hast  my  pity.     Go  !  eat  not  my  bread." 

Another  came  that  wild  and  fearful  night. 

The  fierce  winds  raged,  and  darker  grew  the  sky  ; 
But  all  the  tent  was  filled  with  wondrous  light, 

And  Abraham  knew  the  Lord  his  God  was  nigh. 
"  Where  is  that  aged  man  ?"  the  Presence  said, 

"  That  asked  for  shelter  from  the  driving  blast  ? 
Who  made  thee  master  of  thy  Master's  bread  .? 

What  right  hast  thou  the  wanderer  forth  to  cast  ?" 
"Forgive  me,  l<ord,"  the  Patriarch  answer  made, 

With  downcast  look,  with  bowed  and  trembling  knee. 
"  Ah  me  !  the  stranger  might  have  with  me  stayed, 

But,  O  my  God,  he  would  not  worship  Thee  : 
"I've  borne  him  long,"  God  said,  "  and  still  I  wait  : 

Could'st  thou  not  lodged  him  one  night  in  thy  gate  ?" 

From  a  pamphlet  recently  issued  by  the  Bryant 
Literary  Union  we  glean  the  following  interesting 
particulars  regarding  Mr.  Bruce  and  his  career. 

Wallace  Bruce,  whose  name  bespeaks  his  Scot- 
tish ancestry,  was  born  at  Hillsdale,  Columbia 
County,  New  York.  As  a  lad  he  was  distinguished 
for  zeal  in  scholarship  and  love  of  literature.  At 
the  age  of  thirteen  he  translated  a  portion  of  the 
first  book  of  the  -^neid  into  English  verse.  He 
entered  Claversack  College  at  sixteen,  where  he  took 
the  valedictory.     Went   to  Yale   University,  where 


26 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Mi 

ii: 


he  distinguished  himself  as  scholar,  writer,  and 
speaker,  winning  six  literary  honours,  including  first 
prizes  in  English  composition  and  public  debate. 
Was  made  editor  of  the  Yale  Literary  Magazine  by- 
unanimous  vote  of  his  class.  In  1869  was  admitted 
to  practice  law.  In  1870  went  to  Great  Britain  and 
France ;  was  in  Paris  the  night  Napoleon  was  capt- 
ured at  Sedan ;  walked  over  a  large  part  of  Scotland 
and  England,  studying  the  characteristics  and  cus- 
toms of  the  people.  On  his  return  to  the  Hudson  he 
adopted  literature  as  his  life-work,  and  was  received 
with  marked  favour  on  the  lecture  platform.  In  187 1 
went  to  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  where  he  resided  for 
eighteen  years.  In  1872  was  invited  to  lecture  on 
the  Poughkeepsie  Lyceum.  It  was  a  brilliant 
course,  consisting  of  John  B.  Gough,  Robert  Coll- 
yer,  De  Witt  Talmage,  Daniel  Dougherty,  etc.,  but 
Mr.  Bruce  was  awarded  the  palm  of  the  winter  en- 
tertainment, and  his  fame  as  a  lecturer  was  estab- 
lished in  the  Hudson  Valley.  From  this  happy 
opening  in  the  Queen  City  of  the  Hudson  his  fame 
widened  throughout  the  State,  and  within  two  years 
he  had  all  the  appointments  he  was  able  to  fill. 
Since  that  time  he  has  appeared  ten  times  on  the 
Poughkeepsie  Lyceum,  always  giving  his  new  lecture 
as  the  opening  or  closing  lecture  of  the  course.  Un- 
like many  orators  his  fame  began  at  home,  and  in 
the  lecture  field  he  has  not  been  without  honour  "  m 
his  own  country  and  in  his  own  house. "  Between 
187 1  and  1889,  in  addition  to  orations  and  poems  on 


HON.   WALLACE  BRUCE. 


27 


public  occasions,  Mr.  Bruce  has  lectured  in  almost 
every  town  and  city  in  New  Enj^land,  the  Middle 
and  Western  States,  aggregating  over  two  thousand 
appointments  between  New  York  and  San  Francisco. 
Mr.  Bruce  was  appointed  United  vStates  Consul  to 
Ebinburgh,  July  i,  1889,  from  which  post,  after  an 
honourable  career,  he  retired  on  September  i,  1893. 
During  his  four  years  in  Scotland  he  was  invited  to 
appear  on  almost  every  lecture  course  in  the  realm, 
and  for  four  years  in  succession  before  the  Edinburgh 
Literary  Institute.  He  also  gave  several  lectures  in 
England,  and  was  enthusiastically  greeted  by  the 
Parkside  Institute  of  London. 

While  in  Scotland  he  was  made  Poet  Laureate  of 
Lodge  Canongate  Kilwinning,  Edinburgh,  as  a 
successor  to  Robert  Burns,  Scotia's  national  poet,  and 
James  Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  besides  being 
elected  honorary  corresponding  member  of  the  Scot- 
tish Society  of  Literature  and  Art,  to  succeed  the 
poet  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  He  accepted  the 
invitation  to  write  the  poem  for  the  unveiling  of  the 
Burns  monument  at  Ayr.  Over  forty  thousand 
people  were  present  when  the  poem  was  read  and 
it  was  pronounced  the  event  of  the  day.  He  re- 
sponded to  **  Burns  Clubs  All  Around  the  World,"  at 
Edinburgh  and  Kilmarnock  ;  gave  an  address  at  the 
unveiling  of  Symington's  monument  at  Leadhills; 
a  poem  at  Linlithgow  at  the  Riding  of  the  Marches ; 
an  address  on  Washington  Irving  at  the  old  grammar 
school  building  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  an  oration 


r 


i8 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


on  the  occasion  of  putting  up  the  Scottish  Standard 
on  the  battlefield  of  Bannockburn.  lie  also  gave 
the  dedicatory  address  at  the  unveiling  of  the  Lincoln 
monument  in  Edinburgh,  the  first  erected  to  Lincoln 
in  Europe,  the  money  for  which  was  raised  by  his 
exertions  from  American  citizens  as  a  memorial  to 
Scottish-American  soldiers. 

On  his  leaving  he  was  honoured  with  a  farewell 
banquet  by  the  Cap  and  Gown  Society,  a  letter  of 
esteem  from  the  Edinburgh  Chamber  of  Commerce ; 
was  made  honorary  president  of  the  Shakespeare 
Society  of  the  Scottish  capitol,  and  was  tendered 
a  complimentary  farewell  dinner  by  citizens  gen- 
erally. The  Lord  Provost  and  Town  Council 
of  Edinburgh  also  presented  him  with  a  solid  silver 
loving  cup,  weighing  seventy- five  ounces,  bearing 
the  following  inscription : 

Presented  to 

Hon.  Wallace  Bruce, 

Consul  of  the  United  States  of  America, 

by  the 

Lord  Provost,  Magistrates,  and  Town  Council  of 

Edinburgh, 
On   His  Retiring  from  Office  in  the  City,  as  a  mark  of 
Esteem,  and  Recognition  of  His  Services  to  Scot- 
tish Literature,  September,  1893. 

A  grand  reception  awaited  him  on  his  return  to 
America,  and  his  services  have  been  much  sought 
after  ever  since.  In  the  midst  of  this  busy  life  a 
poem  now  and  then  appears  in  Harper's  or  in  Black- 


HON.   WALLACE  BRUCE. 


29 


wood's  Magasme^  like  bookmarks  in  the  story  of  a 
successful  literary  and  business  career.  His  various 
publications  have  been  good  ventures;  his  hand-book 
of  the  Hudson  having  reached  a  sale  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  copies;  and  his  poems,  "The 
Land  of  Burns,"  "The  Yosemite,"  "The  Hudson," 
"From  the  Hudson  to  the  Yosemite,"  "Old  Home- 
stead Poems,"  "In  Clover  and  Heather,"  "Here's 
a  Hand,"  "  The  Long  Drama, "  "  The  Candle  Parade, " 
and  "Wayside  Poems, "have  aggregated  twenty-five 
thousand  volumes.  In  brief,  whatever  Mr.  Bruce 
does  he  does  well.  He  has  made  his  way  to  the  very 
front  of  the  lecture  platform  without  sensation,  and 
has  won  his  position  by  his  qualifications  as  an  orator, 
a  poet  and  a  genial  man  of  letters.  His  poetry  and 
oratory  are  both  full  of  the  sunshine  and  enthusiasm 
of  his  own  nature.  For  grace,  scholarship  and  mag- 
netic power,  he  stands  to-day  without  a  peer. 


•^5^.r^ 


^"^^4., 


PATRICK  MACPHERSON. 


V. 


It  has  been  my  privilege  for  some  years  past  to 
present  to  the  lovers  of  poetical  literature  at  inter- 
vals, short  bioj^raphical  sketches,  accompanied  by 
brief  criticisms  of  the  musing's  of  a  number  of  men, 
on  whose  shoulders  had  fallen  the  coveted  mantle  of 
poetic  inspiration.  And  the  reward  of  my  labors 
has  been  great  and  abundant  in  the  knowledge  ♦^hat 
the  few  kind  words  thus  .spoken  have  cheered  and 
encouraged  those  sweet  singers  and  in  many  instances 
inspired  them  to  make  greater  fights  in  the  realm  of 
poesy  than  what  they  had  hitherto  undertaken.  It 
is  true,  of  course,  that  they  have  not  all  gained  the 
same  pinnacle  of  success  in  those  latter  fights,  yet 
the  attempt  which  they  made  and  the  results  attained 
have  been  creditable  to  each  and  all  of  them. 

And  so,  when  my  evening  lamp  is  lit  there  is  noth- 
ing that  gives  me  greater  delight  than  to  take  up  the 
writings  of  one  of  these  gifted  individuals — some 
one  with  whom  I  am  not  already  familiar — and  to 
note  the  pure  thoughts  that  ring  through  his  soul,  or 
the  dainty  expressions  that  come  from  his  big  honest 
heart.  I  am  a  true  optimist  in  all  poetical  matters, 
and  I  have  yet  to  open  a  new  volume  of  poems,  or 
to  run  through  a  bundle  of  unpublished  rhymes 
without  finding  some  good  qualities — some  tokens  of 


PATRICK  MACPHERSON. 


3' 


merit  and  interest — in  them 

To-nij^ht  I  have  spent  a  couple  of  very  enjoyable 
hours  with  the  poems  of  Mr.  P.  Macpherson,  the 
bard  of  the  New  York  Caledonian  Club.  I  am  not 
at  present  aware  whether  or  not  Mr.  Macpherson 
has  yet  appeared  before  the  general  public  in  book 
form,  but  if  not,  I  would  strongly  advise  him  to 
gather  a  cluster  of  his  pieces  together  immediately 
and  to  issue  them  in  permanent  form,  as  by  doing  so, 
he  will  please  a  great  many  of  his  friends  and 
admirers,  besides  making  a  valuable  addition  to  the 
Scottish-American  poetical  literature  of  our  time  as 
well. 

I  find  him  to  be  a  man  largely  imbued  with  true 
poetic  genius  and  instincts.  His  muse  is  strong  and 
impulsive,  tender  and  pathetic,  pure,  patriotic,  and 
inspiring.  There  is  no  mistaking  his  meaning.  His 
language  is  terse,  clear  and  to  the  point.  You  learn 
to  love  him  the  moment  you  take  up  his  poems,  as  you 
find  something  in  them  that  immediately  interests 
you.  The  very  first  poem  that  I  examined,  **  A 
Nevv-Made  Grave,"  at  once  conveyed  the  impression 
that  the  author  of  it  possessed  ability  of  the  right 
sort  and  that  there  was  nothing  of  the  mere  rhymster 
about  him.  Apart  from  the  simplicity  and  s*erling 
beauty  of  this  composition,  there  is  considerable 
philosophy  embodied  in  it,  and,  short  as  it  is,  it  is 
worth  a  hundred  of  the  namby-pamby  so-called 
poems  that  we  find  in  many  of  the  newspapers  and 
magazines  of  the  day.     Read  it  over  slowly : 


:! 


32 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


A   NKW-MADR   GRAVE. 

A  cool  summer  eve,  a  boy  and  his  sire, 
In  the  weird  silent  home  of  the  dead — 

Sculpured  encomiums  on  slab,  plinth  and  spire, 
And  some  not  a  stone  at  the  head! 

'*  A  new-made  grave  without  flowers,"  said  the  boy; 

Who  is  it,  papa,  do  you  know  ? 
In  death  so  forlorn!  was  life  void  of  joy  ? 

The  end  lacks  the  semblance  of  woe." 


My  dear  loving  boy,  two  questions  you  ask — 
He  who  slumbers  in  death  was  my  friend; 

'Twas  not  his  good  fortune  in  sunshine  to  bask, 
The  shadows  were  dark  to  the  end." 

"  Papa,  dear  papa  !  did  your  friend  much  repine 
That  fortune  should  pass  by  his  door  ? 

Did  he  notice  and  envy  the  wealth  that  was  thine 
And  sadly  bewail  being  poor?" 

"The  friend,  my  dear  boy,  who  has  gone  to  his  rest, 
Had  no  craving  for  power  or  wealth  ; 

Whatever  was  sent  he  thought  was  the  best — 
The  riches  he  wanted  was  health." 

' '  Papa,  dear  papa,  do  you  think  it  is  fair 

That  the  sick  should  also  be  poor  ? 
Their  load  of  ill  health  is  heavy  to  bear  ; 

What  misery  some  must  endure  !" 


'*  My  dear  earnest  boy,  adrift  on  life's  sea 

Great  dangers  beset  us  and  care  ; 
'Tis  fate,  the  imperious,  that  gives  the  decree  ; 

So  all  we  can  do  is  to  bear." 


PATRirK  MACPHERSON. 


33 


"  Pfipa  !  dear  papa,  if  such  is  the  case 

Then  iiau^ht  we  can  do  can  be  wrong  ; 
The  favored  by  fate  will  win  in  the  i-ace ; 

vSo  calmly  let  things  drift  along." 

"  My  dear  thinking  boy,  yon  arc  young  yet  in  years; 

Our  contluct  through  life  is  the  test  ; 
Reflections  like  those  bring  nothing  but  tears  ; 

lie  prudent,  and  hope  for  the  best." 

Born  in  the  land  of  the  heather,  it  is  only  natural 
that  the  theme  of  many  of  Mr.  Mac])herson'.s  poems 
.should  be  Scotland.  Indeed,  the  motherland  is  a 
fotnitain  from  which  his  muse  very  often  drinks  its 
inspiration.  And  when  he  strikes  the  lyre  on  this 
particular  subject,  there  is  certainly  no  mistakiuji^ 
the  sound.  His  enthusiasm,  at  such  times,  is  bound- 
less, and  yet,  minsj:ling  with  the  ])atriotic  sentiment.", 
of  these  poems  are  man}''  sweet  and  ]-)atheLic  lines 
and  similies.  In  America,  there  are  numenjus  Scr.t- 
tish  poets  who  frecjuently  sing  of  auld  Scotia,  but  I 
question  very  much,  if  any  of  them  has  ever  suno-  of 
it  in  a  more  patriotic  tone  or  spirit,  or,  even  in  a 
more  pleasinjj  manner  than  what  Mr.  Macphcrson 
docs.     Here  is  a  specimen  : 

SCOTI^AND. 


There's  a  land  in  the  sea,  by  the  Orient  shore  ; 
Its  aspect  is  rugged,  stupendous  and  hoar  ; 
Its  fauna,  the  red  deer,  the  roe  and  the  liare  ; 
For  flora,  the  bluebell  and  daisy  are  there. 


34 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Its  mountains  are  draped  with  the  birch  and  the  pine  ; 
On  its  wave-battered  rocks  marine  aljjae  entwine  ; 
There,  shadow  and  sunshine  abound  in  full  form — 
The  soft  lullin;:?  zephyr  and  the  blast  of  the  storm. 

Ossian  and  Homer  tuned  the  lyre  to  relate 
The  patriot's  devotion  in  times  out  of  date  ; 
Of  heroes  and  jj;lory  sang  loud  and  sang  long, 
With  the  fancy  of  bards,  in  the  dreamland  of  song. 


1H 


No  fiction  is  needed  the  1  lurel  to  twine 
On  brows,  bonnie  Scotland,  of  heroes  like  thine  ; 
With  valor  undaunted  Ihey  fought  and  were  free — 
Your  Wallace,  your  Rruce,  Montrose  and  Dundee. 

The  pibroch,  the  quickstep,  the  reel,  the  strathspey, 
Can  weep  with  the  mourner,  can  laugh  with  the  gay — 
Make  the  young  and  the  old  to  feel  gladsome  and  h.ale. 
As  they  flow  like  a  stream,  from  the  pipes  of  the  Gael. 


To  whom  but  to  thee  docs  the  title  belong  ? — 
"The  home  of  the  Muses,  the  fountain  of  song  ;" — 
They  may  talk  of  parnassus  as  much  as  they  will — 
Land  of  Scott,  Ranway,  Hogg,  Campbell,  Burns,  Tannahill ! 

Let  ours  be  the  aim  to  i>c  worthy  of  thee. 
Our  stern  loving  mother,  unconquercd  and  free  : 
Willi  hearts  light  ftni  'italwart  seek  fortime  and  fnme, 
Aye  loyal  and  true  to  the  dear  Scottish  name. 

Then  home  of  our  sires,  though  oceans  us  sever, 
Till  death's  chilly  hand  stills  the  heart's  heaving  swell ; 
The  wreath  of  old  Scotland  for  ever  and  ever  ! — 
The  thi,«5t.!c,  the  heather,  and  bonnie  bluebell ! 


H1lL„ 


P.I  TRICK  MACrHERSON. 


35 


Scotland  forever  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
lie  false  to  her  tiever  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
The  pink  of  crtition— surpasses  theui  a', — 
Ev'ry  country  aid  nation,     Hurrah  !  luirrah  ! 

But  I  came  upon  another  ])Oom  to-nip:ht  in  con- 
nection with  Scotland  which  very  ;^rcatly  pleased  mc, 
It  is  one  entitled  "Dark  Cullodcn  Day,"  and  so 
hio-hly  was  it  ranked  by  competent  jiulj^es  at  the 
time  of  its  comi^lelion  that  it  secured  for  its  author 
a  valuable  prize  from  the  New  Yf)rk  Caledonian  Club. 
It  is  a  very  excellent  piece  of  poetical  work  in  all 
respects  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  warm  reception 
it  met  with  when  it  was  first  issued.  The  subject 
itself  is  one  that  every  Scotsman  is  or  should  be  fa- 
miliar with.  American  readers,  however,  may  not 
at  once  recall  the  full  particulars.  Therefore,  I 
quote  the  following  from  Chambers'  "History  of  the 
Rebellion  "  for  their  special  benefit  : 

"After  the  battle  of  Falkirk,  the  Highlanders 
continued  their  retreat,  and  on  the  i8th  of  February, 
1746,  entered  Inverness.  On  the  25lh  of  February, 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland's  army  entered  Aberdeen, 
and  both  sides  engaged  in  petty  skirmishes  in  their 
district,  till  on  the  18th  of  April,  the  duke  marched 
upon  the  northern  capital.  The  Highland  army  ad- 
vanced to  Drummossic  Moor,  about  five  miles,  to 
meet  him,  and  on  the  16th  of  April,  1746,  engaged  in 
the  celebrated  battle  of  Culloden,  which  resulted,  as 
is  well  known,  in  the  complete  defeat  of  the  High- 
land array.     The  battle  of  Culloden  lasted  little  more 


L 
i^ 


If 

1 

i 

1 

i 
1 

1 

! 

1 

1 

i. 

1 

1 

1 

'm 

!                ' 

! 

than  forty  minutes,  most  of  which  brief  space  of 
time  was  spent  in  distant  firint^,  and  very  little  in  the 
active  struj';^le.  It  was  as  complete  a  victory  as 
possible  on  the  part  of  the  royal  army,  and  any  other 
result  would  have  been  very  discreditable  to  the 
English  army.  Its  numbers  and  condition  of  fight- 
in,i»'  were  so  superior,  their  artillery  did  so  much  for 
them,  and  the  plan  of  the  battle  was  so  much  in  their 
favor,  that  to  have  lost  the  day  would  have  argued 
a  degree  of  misbehavior  for  which  even  Pi*eston-pans 
and  Falkirk  had  not  prepared  us." 

"Dark  Culloden  Day"  is  a  somewhat  lengthy 
composition,  but  I  quote  it  in  full  as  it  is  now,  and 
must  ever  remain,  one  of  Mr.  Macphersons  best 
poems  : 

DARK   CULLODEN    DAY. 
April  1 6,  1746. 

Ye  glorious  sist.ers  nine — 
Melpomene  divine  ! 
A  tragic  theme  is  mine, 

Inspire  my  mournful  lay  ; 
The  tale  has  oft  been  told 
In  tears,  by  patriarchs  old  ; 
The  interest  ne'er  gets  cold, 

In  "  Dark  Ciillodcn  Day." 


The  heavens,  o'ercast  with  gloom  ; 
O'er  all  the  wreck  of  doom  ; 
Dacli  cairn  a  patriot's  tomb  ; 
Let  wailing  pibrochs  play  ! 


'■"*-4,, 


PA  TRICK  MACPIIKNSGN. 


37 


O'erwhiihned  by  d'  .;>jest  woe, 
The  tears  of  feeliii)^  flow  ; 
Our  Royal  line  laid  low, 

On  "Dark  Culloden  Day." 

With  death's  funereal  pcdl. 
And  cypress  drape  the  wall ; 
Deplore  in  cot  and  hall 

The  outcome  of  the  fray. 
In  sorrow  we  bewail 
Kach  fallen  loyal  (iael ; 
The  brave,  from  hill  and  dale — 

On  "Dark  Culloden  Day." 

The  crimson  Highland  blood 
Was  poured  out  like  a  flood  ; 
In  gory  recking  nmd, 

The  slaughtered  clansmem  lay. 
They  fell  uplu)lding  right. 
The  Prince  they  loved,  iji  sight, 
Out  numbered  in  the  fight 

On  "  Dark  Culloden  Day." 

The  vale  of  fair  olencoe 
Saw  scenes  of  deepest  woe  ; 
Trei!'  hein;js  were  the  foe — 

Th-^  .truck  midst  feasting  gay  ; 
Diike  William  in  command 
Wa'i  worse— with  sword  and  br  ;\d, 
Lc    loot'e  a  nuirdering  band 

On  "Dark  Culloden  Day." 

O  e :  hill  and  dale  they  sped, 
The  fiend  incarnate  led, 
A  ?wath  they  strewed  with  dead, 
Uke  reapers  liiov.'!   <  hav, 


1V1 


■■■■I 


38 


llilll  j 


i   ' 

1 

1 

i 

:! 

^   III. 

W  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


The  sun  of  Scotland's  glory, 
Her  place  in  song  and  story. 
Eclipsed  were  by  this  foray, 
On  "  Dark  Culloden  Day." 

The  old,  the  young,  the  fair. 
To  wrongs  beyond  repair. 
To  death  and  violence  were 

Consigned  by  lordings  gay. 
The  true  historians  tell, 
The  carnage  that  befell. 
Where  rode  those  imps  of  hell 

On  "  Dark  Culloden  Day." 

The  mem'ry  of  the  brave. 
Who  fought  their  Prince  to  save 
From  every  treacherous  knave, 

Untarnished  lasts  fcr  aye  ; 
Around  the  festive  board, 
Their  names  will  be  adorred, 
Their  foes  will  be  ubhored 

On  "Dark  Cullwlen  Day." 

The  absent  alien  stock. 

Who  claim  each  foot  of  rock  ; 

Debased  in  hoof  and  hock. 

Unloved  have  had  their  day. 
Their  sun  has  nearly  set. 
The  claymore  draw  and  whet ; 
Arouse  !  and  don't  forget 

"  Dark  Culloden  Day." 

Then  Scotland  in  her  might. 
The  vampire  bats  will  smite  ; 
Will  rule  her  own  aright 
Exultant  pibrochs  play. 


f: 


M  i 


PATRICK  MACPHERSON. 


The  uiirk^'  clouds  will  fade  ; 
The  nations  debt  be  paid  ; 
The  howlin  T  spectre  laid 

Of  "  Dark  Cullodeii  Day." 


39 


I 


Like  all  true  Scotsmen,  Mr.  Macpherson  is  an 
admirer  of  the  national  poet,  Robert  Burns.  It 
would  certainly  be  strange  were  he  otherwi.se.  And 
yet,  I  cannot  say  that  any  of  his  poems  are  modelled 
after  Burns.  Far  from  it.  His  muse  is  free  and  in- 
dependent, and  follows  its  own  inclination  at  all  times. 
It  is  related  of  him  that  in  the  town  where  he  lived 
fifty  years  ago,  there  was  a  Dr.  Grant,  a  retired 
naval  officer,  who  knew  Burns  well.  The  doctor  was 
a  very  nice  old  gentleman,  and  would  let  people 
shake  the  hand  that  had  shaken  the  hand  of  Burns. 
To  this  day  Mr.  Macpherson  is  proud  of  the  fact  that 
he  had  on  at  least  one  occasion,  warmly  grasped  the 
old  doctor's  hand.  And  he  sings  of  Burns  in  one  or 
!  vo  poems  that  are  well  worthy  of  quotation,  as, 
tp.  XL  from  the  subject,  they  contain  a  great  deal  of 
merit.  The  following  may  be  taken  as  a  specimen 
J!  iiis  powers  in  this  direction  : 


SCOTIA'S  BARD. 


The  classic  bards  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome 
Live  but  in  name — like  the  *•  Appian  Way  ; 

On  shelves  unread  rests  many  a  pond'rous  tome — 
Museum  fossils,  the  book-worms  prey ; 

In  Inter  times  come  Shakespeare,  Dryden,  Pope, 


"nir 


40 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POinS. 


111 


I  i 


And  Milton's  epic — sombre,  hazy,  weird — 
Thou}.;]!  ricli  in  fancy  and  of  wond'rous  scope, 

It  lacks  vitality,  is  dead  and  vSered  ; 
Material  presence  we  never  feel — 
A  real  personage  is  Burns's  "  I3eil." 

When  vScott  essayeil  Olympic  heights  to  scale, 
And  fdl  his  goblet  from  the  fount  of  song, 

3^'^  stormed  parnassus  like  a  fearless  Gael  ; — 

id  ga':;od  the  sunnuit,  for  his  flight  w.as  strong  : — 

Tli.  .v'hen  struck  by  Hyron's  skillful  hand — 

To  » .    ■  >:  attuned  with  mountains,  rocks  aiul  rills — 

Gave  forth  such  music  as  entranced  the  land. 
The  beauties  charm  us  and  the  pathos  thrills  ; 

Whilst  soriiing  pinions  to  them  both  belong. 

Burns  reigns  unrivaled  in  the  realm  of  song. 

Southey,  Coleridge,  Keats,  Wordsworth  and  Tom  Moore 

Dazzle  us  no  more — their  light  has  failed — 
The  lyre  they  struck  in  rosoiuince  was  poor  ; 

'Twas  measured  music,  neatly  •>itched  and  scaled  ; 
The  minor  bards  may  startle  loving  friends 

With  driveled  dullness,  nor  tune,  nor  time  ; 
Their  balked  ambition  soon  in  failure  eiuls — 

Ignoring  method  while  they  strangle  rhyme. 
The  struggling  crowd  of  many  blank  decades 
Just  floundered  on  and  clubbed  their  spavined  jades. 

Mackay  and  Swinburne  may  be  rated  high, 

Compared  to  others  of  the  rhyming  brood  ; 
We  grant  it  so,  but  do  they  e'er  come  uigh 

To  Burns  in  strength  or  in  altitude  ? 
The  muse  of  Tennyson  was  gentle,  mild — 

Distilling  philters  feminine — yet  he 
lias  launched  a  pean,  darksome,  thrilling,  wild, 

A  sample  glorious  of  war's  minstrelsy ; 
'Tis  really  great,  a  living  sketch,  but  say, 
Can  it  compare  with  Burns'  "  Scots  wha  hae  ?" 


m 


til 


i4i 


!     t 


tronj^  :- 
id— 
ul  rills- 

11s; 


Tom  Moore 


scaled  ; 


le, 

IS 


d  jades. 


rild, 


?'• 


PA  TRICK  AMC/VZ/'JA'SON. 


4* 


Uncounted  niilHons  clmniied  hear  Burns's  lay, 

They  list  in  ecstacy,  'tis  from  above, 
So  sweet  its  cadence,  all  their  homage  pay, 

With  reverence  bowing  in  their  faith  and  love  ; 
At  home,  or  drifting  on  a  foreign  shore, 

Of  Scotia's  bard  we  are  ever  proud  ; 
Our  homage  true  to  the  inmost  core. 

Till  life  is  ended  and  in  our  shroud  • 
With  joy  exultant  when  the  day  returns, 
We'll  meet  to  honour  immortal  Burns. 

In  these  lines  are  sentiments   and  other  sterling 
qualities  which  stamp  the  author  as  a  true  poet. 

In  connection  wdth  Mr.  Macpherson,  I  take 
pleasure  in  quoting  a  brief  biographical  sketch  of 
his  which  appears  in  '*  Modern  Scottish  Poets."  He 
was  born  on  the  19th  of  December,  1829,  at  the 
Dam  of  Dulsie,  Nairnshire,  Scotland.  In  1836,  his 
mother,  then  a  widow,  removed  to  Forres,  in  Moray- 
shire. Then  our  Highland  boy  new  only  Gaelic, 
and  for  the  amusement  of  his  playmates  he  fre 
quently  had  to  repeat  the  Lord's  prayer,  in  that 
ancient  language.  After  a  year  at  school,  however, 
he  knew  as  much  "Forres  English"  as  the  other 
boys,  and  ultimately  took  first  prize  for  English  read- 
ing. About  1 84 1  he  entered  the  services  of  a  book- 
seller, as  a  shop  boy,  and  as  his  employer  was  form- 
erly a  schoolmaster,  he  taught  the  lad  Latin  and  other 
higher  branches  of  learning.  Here  he  also  gained  a 
knowledge  of  bookbinding  and  land  surveying. 
After  three  years  his  master  died  and  the  business 
was  disposed  of.     Thus  was  closed  our  young  High- 


42 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


WiU 


f'iiil 


i   lliili  ll 


II 


lander's  career  as  a  bookseller,  but  the  teaching  of 
the  old  bookseller  and  contact  with  his  books  and 
the  learned  but  eccentric  people  who  frequented  his 
shop,  became  prime  factors  in  determining  Mac- 
pherson's  character  and  tastes.  Our  hero  was  next 
apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker,  singing  in  the  church 
choir  on  Sundays  and  in  his  leisure  moments  in  the 
evening  receiving  musical  lessons  from  an  old  soldier, 
and  ultimately  became  clarionet  player  in  the  local 
instrument  band.  He  also  attended  evening  schools 
for  singing,  dancing,  elocution,  etc.,  and  was  pre- 
centor in  Rafford  Church  for  three  years  previous  to 
1 85 1,  wiieiji  he  went  to  Edinburgh  and  followed  his 
calling  in  one  of  the  leading  bootshops  in  that  city, 
and  from  thence  to  London,  and  to  New  York  in 
1870. 

While  in  London  Mr.  Macpherson  was  one  of  the 
first  to  join  the  science  classes  in  the  new  Royal 
Polytechnic  Institute,  where  he  studied  mathmatics, 
chemistry  and  practical  mechanics,  and  he  afterward 
passed  with  distinction  in  an  examination  held  by 
the  Society  of  arts.  It  may  be  urged,  he  says  that 
such  abstract  studies  could  be  productive  of  no 
pecuniary  benefit  to  a  mechanic.  Accumulating 
wealth  is  not  the  sole  object  of  human  existence. 
Such  studies  have  a  salutary  effect  in  clearing  and 
strengthening  the  intellectual  faculties.  Many  well- 
meaning  friends  advised  the  abandonment  of  manual 
labor  for  a  more  ethereal  occupation.  But  this 
specimen  of  the  (alleged  lazy)  Highlanders  kept  at 


PATRICK  iMACPHERSON. 


43 


aching  of 
ooks  and 
Lented  his 
ing  Mac- 
was  next 
le  church 
its  in  the 
d  soldier, 
the  local 
g  schools 
was  pre- 
evious  to 
owed  his 
that  city, 
York  in 

le  of  the 
w  Royal 
hmatics, 
fterward 

held  by 
ays  that 
of  no 
[nulating 
jcistence. 
ring  and 
iny  well- 
:  manual 
5ut    this 

kept  at 


work,  knew  neither  poverty  nor  riches,  was  never 
sick,  and  found  bootmaking,  on  the  best  class  of 
work,  to  yield  as  good  an  income  as  any  calling  with- 
in reach.  It  also  afforded  absolute  freedom  of  action 
— was  just  the  business  for  an  erratic,  rough-hewn 
essayist  and  versifier.  For  twenty  years  he  has  been 
in  the  sewing  machine  and  musical  instrument  busi- 
ness at  319  9th  Ave.,  New  York. 

Since  his  i8th  year  Mr.  Macpherson  has  been 
writing  articles,  verses,  etc.  He  is  still  stalwart  in 
body,  vigorous  in  mind,  ever  progressive.  Intensely 
Scotch,  he  has  been  over  twenty-five  years  a  member 
of  the  New  York  Caledonian  Club.  An  interviewer 
in  one  of  the  New  York  papers  says:  "  In  some  re- 
spects he  is  a  remarkable  man.  He  is  certainly  a 
scholar  of  no  mean  attainments,  a  fine  musician, 
playing  upon  several  different  instruments,  including 
the  bagpipes  of  his  native  Highlands.  He  has  written 
songs  and  set  them  to  music  and  he  does  not  hesitate 
occasionally  to  harness  his  muse  into  the  shafts  of 
business." 

This  reference  to  our  author's  lyrical  powers  is  well 
merited  and  recalls  quite  a  number  of  those  pieces 
that  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  reading.  Here  is  a 
brief  specimen.     It  is  very  musical : 

THE  THREE   KATES. 

The  crowfeet  and  the  furrows 

Attest  the  lapse  of  years, 
But  yet  there's  a  panacea 

To  mitigate  our  tears ; 


li;'    . 


■il 

;l 

I'll 


44 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


%  iiii 


We  think  of  Janes  and  Jessies, 
Who  influenced  our  fate — 

I  was  gone  on  three  completely, 
And  each  of  them  was  Kate. 

There  was  bonnie  Katie  Fraser, 

Amiable  and  fair. 
And  winsome  Katie  Kynoch — 

Her  ma  was  from  Kildare — 
And  darling  Katie  Calder, 

My  affinity  and  joy, 
She  just  was  all  perfection. 

So  clever,  sweet  and  coy. 

Our  paths  in  life  diverged — 

Like  me  she  crossed  the  seas — 
I  westward  went,  her  goal  was 

The  far  antipodes ; 
Beneath  the  "Southern  Cross" 

She  chose  a  wedded  life. 
And  pledged  her  love  and  troth 

As  a  faithful,  tender  wife. 

Gentle,  kind  and  winning. 

Pure  as  mountain  air, 
The  frosts  of  three-score  winters 

May  bleach  her  raven  hair, 
May  blanch  her  rosy  cheeks. 

The  dimples  may  efface, 
Her  youthful  charms  will  linger. 

She'll  bear  the  years  with  grace. 

There  all  my  knowledge  ceases 
Of  those  charming,  pretty  girls. 

We  get  what  Fate  decrees  us 
As  the  ball  terrestrial  whirls — 


'A, 


m 


PATRICK  MACPHERSON. 


45 


If  still  among  the  living, 

I  wish  them  every  joy, 
Time,  their  youth  and  beauty 

To  me,  cannot  destroy. 

There  is  quite  a  large  number  of  Mr.  Macpherson's 
poems  and  songs  which  I  would  like  to  touch  upon 
did  space  permit.  But  I  am  unable  to  do  more  than 
mention  the  names  of  the  best  of  them.  They  are 
as  follows:  "Annie  the  Fair,"  '*  I'm  Scotch,"  "  To 
Scotland,"  "Tut  the  Towie,"  "Sandy,"  "Bonnie 
Annie  McQueen,"  "  Eppie  Tam,"  "Highland  Hunt- 
ing Song,"  "The  Cyclone,"  "  The  Viking  Rover," 
"  McDonald  on  a  Wheel,"  "The  Highland  Crofters," 
"Farewell,"  and  "Usguebagh."  These,  along  with 
a  few  others,  and  the  pieces  which  I  have  already 
quoted  in  full,  would  make  a  very  respectable  looking 
volume  of  poetry,  and  I  hope  Mr.  Macpherson  will 
take  the  hint  and  ere  long  be  able  to  annoimce  that 
his  poems  are  "in  the  press."  Another  writer  has 
said  of  him :  "  As  a  poet  and  pose  writer,  Mr.  Mac- 
pherson traverses  many  interesting  fields  and  teaches 
many  important  truths  with  considerable  descriptive 
power  and  in  clear  and  forcible  language.  His 
patriotic  songs  are  characterized  by  stirring  senti- 
ment, and  show  that  while  real  to  the  land  of  his 
adoption,  his  heart  keeps  warm  to  the  tartan — the 
sentiment  of  deep  loyalty  and  admiration  for  the 
heather  hills  that  nourished  his  infancy  and  inspired 
his  earliest  imagination."  And  here  before  taking 
leave  of  Mr.    Macpherson,  I  would  like  to  quote  a 


m 


rw 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


l! 


!i* 


4:1 
III 


little  lyric,  an  especial  favorite  of  its  authors.  The 
title  is  '*  Princess  Louise  of  Lome,"  and  it  is  as  dainty 
and  patriotic  and  loyal  a  little  song  as  ever  was  put 
forth  by  one  claiming  to  be  a  "  Scotch- American :" 

PRINCESS  LOUISE  OF  LORNE. 

We  hear  not  the  name  of  a  Campbell, 

Nor  yet  in  Argyle  were  we  born  ; 
But  we  love  the  land  of  the  thistle, 

And  the  Princess  Louise  of  Lome. 

The  flower  reappears  in  the  blossom — 

A  blending  of  even  and  mom — 
Like  the  Empress  and  Queen  Victoria, 

And  the  Princess  Louise  of  Lome. 

Some  names  we  hold  dear  and  cherish. 
For  those  who  have  left  us  we  mourn  ; 

With  feeling  we  think  of  Prince  Charlie, 
With  love,  of  the  Princess  of  Lome. 

Though  far  from  the  land  of  our  fathers, 
By  fortune's  rough  hand  we've  been  borne, 

We  can  trace  the  Bruce's  blood  Royal 
To  the  Princess  Louise  of  Lome. 

No  recreant  oath  will  enslave  us — 
To  the  Queen  our  fealty's  sworn — 

Our  loyalty,  roused  from  its  slumber, 
Stands  fast  to  the  Princess  of  Lome. 


i 


% 


Long  life  to  Empress  Victoria  ! 

For  years  may  her  honors  be  worn  i 
The  other  Princesses  and  Princes, 

And  the  Marquis  and  Princess  of  Lome. 


i 


1    III 


PATRICK  MACPHERSON. 


rhe 
inty 
put 
in:" 


47 


In  conclusion,  let  me  assure  Mr.  Macpherson  that 
I  am  glad  his  poems  came  under  my  notice.  I  have 
spent  a  pleasant  time  over  them,  and  they  have  done 
me  good.  And  when  one  claiming  to  be  a  critic  can 
say  of  another's  writings  that  a  perusal  of  them  has 
done  him  good,  the  reader  may  be  sure  that  there 
must  be  considerable  talent — something  that  will 
live  in  them. 


m 


\'\[\ 


REV.    ARCHIBALD    ROSS. 


i!lP! 


IT  is  seldom  that  theologians  come  prominently 
before  the  literary  world  as  writers  of  poetry. 
While  many  of  them  are  endowed  with  poetic  j^ifts 
of  a  high  order,  and  while  they  undoubtedly  exer- 
cise those  gifts  more  or  less  during  their  leisure 
moments,  it  is  only  on  certain  occasions,  or  for  spec- 
ial reasons  that  their  musings  are  ever  allowed  to  pass 
beyond,  or  even  become  known  outside  of  the  family 
circle.  Why  this  should  be  the  rule  instead  of  the 
exception,  we  are  at  a  loss  to  determine  or  explain 
We  confess  ourselves  confident  that  many  of  then 
would  ultimately  attain  a  high  rank  among  the  poets 
of  their  country  were  they  to  place  their  productions 
within  easy  reach  of  such  readers  as  delight  in,  and 
acknowledge  themselves  interested  in  this  particular 
branch  of  literature.  The  Rev.  Archibald  Ross  of 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  is  a  fair  example  of  the  kind  of 
poet  preacher  that  we  have  reference  to.  While  he 
has  been  for  many  years  a  successful  laborer  in  the 
Master's  vineyard,  he  has  not  neglected  to  cultivate 
and  make  use  of  the  poetical  talents  that  he  has  been 
blessed  with,  and  his  numerous  poems  are  not  only 
intelligent  and  readable  productions,  but  are  in  every 
respect  well  worthy  of  preservation.  There  is  in- 
deed something  to  cherish  and  admire  in  all  that  he 


RHY.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


PT 


III 


■■'■*<. 


■2i 


tOgggta^M 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


19 


has  written.  His  muse  is  refined  but  vigorous,  his 
hmguage  classical  and  terse,  his  rhythtn  musical,  and 
his  descriptive  and  argumentative  powers  keen  and 
active.  In  no  instance  is  the  s])irit  of  frivolity  visi- 
ble. We  perceive  at  a  glance  that  each  of  his  poems 
has  been  studiously  brooded  over  and  carefully 
worked  out,  while  an  independent  and  earnest  yet  en- 
couraging tone  is  conspicuous  and  makes  itself  felt 
in  almost  every  line.  He  rarely  introduces  or  pic- 
tures the  darker  side  of  life  to  us,  but  for  the  shams 
and  idle  pretensions  of  the  world  he  certainly  has  no 
mercy,  and  he  holds  them  up  to  ridicule  and  scoiti 
in  words  of  reproach  and  condemnation  that  con- 
tinue to  echo  through  our  memory  long  after  they 
have  been  listened  to  or  read.  On  the  other  hand, 
however,  and  as  may  readily  be  surmised,  his  vener- 
ation for  all  that  is  noble  and  ]yure  and  sincere  in 
life  is  equally  intense  and  asserts  itself  at  all  times. 
That  he  loves  his  fellowman,  no  one  can  doubt  after 
once  reading  his  writings,  but  for  the  honest,  liberal, 
broad-minded  Christian  man  he  has  an  especial 
regard  and  he  extends  the  hand  of  fellowship  and 
good  will  to  him  on  every  possible  occasion.  He 
looks  upon  the  poet's  office  as  high  and  noble,  even 
godlike;  and  the  reader  will  not  fail  to  be  pleased, 
in  this  connection,  with  an  extract  from  "The 
Poet,"  where  the  imagination  is  luxuriant,  the  diction 
clear  and  expressive,  and  the  thought  magnificent 
yet  chaste  and  delicate  : 


:•'  !J 


SO 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


THE   POET. 


Pi 


Fl 


He  walks  with  men,  and  yet  he  is  a  king — 

A  right  and  royal  one,  and  on  his  brow 

Is  stamped  the  impress  of  God's  coronal. 

He  bears  the  aspect  of  a  messenger, 

And  enters  on  his  work  with  dignity. 

He  parleys  not,  nor  wavers,  for  he  knows 

The  Graces  are  around  him  to  delight, 

While  soaring  through  his  field,  the  universe. 

Thus,  conscious  of  his  ancient  title  deeds, 

And  rich  inheritance,  he  vindicates 

Justice  and  order  wisely,  nor  will  swerve 

A  hairbreadth  from  the  will  within  his  hands. 

To  him  all  form  and  substance  play  a  part 

In  perfect  unison.     The  azure  bound 

Alive  M'ith  him,  rejoices  ;  the  bleak  earth, 

So  cold  and  bare  to  millions,  he  transforms 

To  labyrinths  of  grandeur,  where  the  walks 

Of  opal,  garnet,  and  a  thousand  gems, 

Blaze  in  the  lustre  of  cerulean  fires. 

The  vaporous  clouds  in  his  alembic  eye 

Like  huge  leviathans  plough  the  serene, 

Bearing  the  fleecy  waters,  from  whose  breasts 

Drop  welcome  fatness,  while  the  smiling  earth 

And  jubilant  heaven  meet  and  assert  their  loves 

With  passion  awful  in  its  majesty. 

To  him  the  chaste,  clear  evening  sky  unfolds 

A  spangled  vesture  fit  for  deity. 

He  rides  earth  like  a  charioteer,  observes 

Her  graceful  sailing  round  the  galaxies 

Unharmed  and  undisturbed.    He  knoweth  well 

Disease  is  but  derangement — maladies 

But  atoms  in  disorder,  where  the  line 

Is  broken,  and  the  air  is  full  of  death. 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


5f 


He  is  a  priest  of  nature,  wandering  through 

The  alcoves  of  his  garden,  and  avers 

That  as  a  poet  he  must  teach,  arouse, 

And  open  out  the  beauties  of  his  house. 

Though  the  world  laugh,  his  work  goes  bravely  on. 

He  watches  undercurrents,  and  while  men 

May  think  him  nerveless,  vapid  and  inane. 

He  pierces  through  their  being  like  the  spear. 

Armed  and  accoutred  at  the  fountain  head, 
He  comes  to  earth  prepared  to  speak  to  men. 
The  circumambient  air,  the  marvelous  light, 
The  subterranean  fires :  all  hidden  things 
Declare  his  active  presetice  ;  fruits  and  flowers. 
As  well  as  noxious  vapors,  and  the  warmth 
Of  sunshine,  or  the  gloomy  depths  of  night. 
The  adamantine  rocks  unloose  their  bands 
Within  his  presence,  while  Bootes  waits. 
With  Hercules  and  all  the  host  of  heaven, 
To  bid  him  welcome  to  their  distant  zones. 
He  mounts  the  tempest,  flying  etherward, 
Or,  silently,  steals  in  the  heart  of  man  ; 
For  he  knows  human  nature ;  he  can  play 
With  infants,  or  hold  converse  with  the  peer 
Of  schools ;  he  meets  with  nature's  commonest  pets, 
Buds,  leaves  and  blossoms ;  the  huge  oak  and  elm 
To  him  are  distant  brothers,  carrying  on 
Some  holy  ministration.    When  he  sleeps. 
His  favorite  monitor  pours  in  his  ear 
Rare  chords  of  melody  known  but  to  few. 
He  wakes  :  the  tiniest  grasses  in  the  plain 
Give  solemn  lessons  for  his  lecture  hour, 
While  insect  matins  and  the  song  of  birds 
Reveal  the  glories  of  his  paradise. 

Who  knoweth  but  the  suns  of  other  realms. 
Whose  beauties  sparkle  on  the  breast  of  Night, 
May  speak  his  parentage  ;  for  this  we  see, 


ir 


I 


•  '\'\V 


II!   'li 


5' 


yl  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


His  ways  are  singular,  his  habits  strange, 
His  soul  subdued  and  pensive,  or  lit  up 
With  eddies  of  delight  that  grave  their  lines 
More  deeply  than  in  faces  of  the  crowd, 
Pleading  as  if  he  knew  that  our  life  here 
Were  but  a  school,  while  his  intensive  speech 
And  mode  of  utterance  savor  of  abodes 
Mayhap  contiguous,  if  not  of  this  world. 

Welcome,  thou  visitant  from  other  climes  ! 
Stay  with  us,  teaching  us  that  to  be  wise 
Is  our  great  privilege,  our  brightest  joy. 
The  earth  cries  out  from  villainy  and  wrong. 
And  in  thy  sacred  mission  souls  will  rise. 
And  learn  to  love  their  great  Original. 


h  ! 


Mr.  Ross  has  been  a  pretty  keen  observer  in  so- 
ciety, and  our  readers  may  rest  assured  that  Henry 
Ward  Beecher  gave  him  great  theme  for  contempla- 
tion. When  this  extraordinary  genius  passed  away, 
the  strange  stagnation  and  adverse  currents  of  opinicm 
that  followed  in  his  wake  were  ably  reflected  in  a 
most  brilliant  poem  by  the  author.  The  ire  of  the 
narrow  theologians  was  aroused  ;  tho  commendation 
of  the  Broad  Christian  Church  was  noble  and  out- 
spoken ;  and  in  the  lull — 

While  some  grow  vengeful,  waiting  for  a  chance 
To  kiss  Pelagius,  and  kick  Augustine, 
Others,  conversely,  chose  more  beaten  paths. 
That  lead,  they  swear,  from  Paul's  theology. 
And  so  religious  valor  is  at  ebb. 
And  thought  is  squeamish  from  the  want  of  fire. 
And  Zeal  is  purblind  from  the  lack  of  faith. 
And  vile  Suspicion  gnaws  one  to  the  bone, 


.  I   J.iiUi|llH'l».IIWiW 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS, 


53 


And  teachers,  prisoned  in  the  iron  bands 

Of  narrow  dogma,  lie  down  in  the  mire. 

Nor  will  they  shake  themselves  till  once  they  hear 

A  shout  from  Plymouth,  that  will  make  them  turn 

Their  lazy  selves — may  it  come  speedily. 


Both  in  Canada  and  the  United  States,  Mr.  Ross 
has  been  an  extensive  traveler,  and  he  could  not  fail 
to  be  interested  in  the  question  of  ventilation  as  a 
sanitary  precaution  in  our  dwelling-houses  and  work- 
shops. In  the  pulpit  and  the  press  he  has  spoken  on 
this  theme  to  good  advantage.  In  the  following 
picture  from  '*  Gaza"  (well  styled  from  Samson's 
prison  house),  the  reader  can  see  the  workmen, 
notice  the  filth  in  every  direction,  and  hear  the  out- 
bursts of  infamy  that  accompany  them.  And  this 
of  a  workshop  in  New  York.  Thank  Heaven,  things 
are  mending  by  degrees,  and  God's  pure  air  is  more 
and  more  allowed  to  permeate  our  dwellings  and 
shops  every  year. 


\  i 


GAZA, 

Twelve  days  did  I  grind  hard  at  Gaza  prison. 
Where  the  proud  Philistines  set  up  their  tools 
And  implements  of  war,  and  the  rooms  reeked 
With  feculent  odors,  and  the  slimy  floors 
And  purulent  atmosphere  smelt  of  grim  death. 
There  stood  the  martyrs  in  their  nauseous  pens — 
Where  the  hours  rolled  like  an  eternity — 
So  unaccustomed  to  the  air  of  heaven, 
That  when  God  sent  the  light-winged  zephyrs  forth. 
The  windows  shut  to  rapidly  as  if  Hell 


\ 


n 


1 1 


?  1 


54 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


l! 
I 


■ii'-i 


i 


% 


Were  on  the  rampage  ;  and  the  hacking  cough, 
And  pale  and  sombre  visage,  and  dry  tears. 
With  flakes  of  sputa  floating  in  the  gloom. 
Midst  ghastly  laugh  and  noxious  gases — all 
Spoke  of  a  race  of  white  slaves  yet  on  earth, 
Cursed  by  King  Mammon  to  disease  and  shame. 
The  cruel  Philistines  looked  in  and  laughed 
At  the  poor  helots  gasping  for  their  breath, 
And  conjured  how  a  further  ten  per  cent. 
Might  be  adroitly  fleeced  without  suspicion. 
There  were  young  Jezebels  attired  in  paint, 
Hot  in  their  maledictions,  whose  sly  oaths 
lyike  scimetars  would  pierce  the  putrid  air. 
And  men  who  erst  showed  on  their  pensive  brows 
Beauty  and  genius,  now  depraved  and  base 
As  Sodom  in  its  fall. 

"Life "is  a  most  exquisite  piece  of  reading".  It 
is  a  poem  of  over  a  thousand  lines  in  long  iambics, 
and  exhibits  a  thousand  beauties.  Here  we  find  a 
large  pasture  ground,  forcing  upon  our  attention,  from 
the  monad  to  the  stellar  spheres,  theme  upon  theme 
for  illustration.  "The  Heavens,"  "Sleep,"  "The 
Rain,"  "The  Snow,"  "Flowers,"  etc.,  are  crystal- 
ized  throughout  in  the  highest  flights  of  sacred  and 
impassioned  language.  Morals,  beauty,  character, 
are  here.     Is  this  not  beautiful  ? 

Here,  veiled  in  innocence,  comes  one. 
Resplendent,  radiant,  like  the  sun. 
Go  where  we  may,  do  what  we  will. 
Her  sweetness  shines  upon  us  still. 
Hope  still  holds  queenship  in  the  soul. 
Still  wields  her  sceptre  of  control — 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


55 


A  remnant  of  the  happy  time 

Our  parents  passed  in  Eden's  prime. 


Iji  the  writer's  opinion,  "Theodemia,  a  glimpse 
of  the  Divine  Academy,"  is  his  masttirpiece.  This 
is  a  remarkable  poem  in  many  respects ;  strong,  im- 
pulsive and  full  of  genuine  poetic  power.  It  is  ex- 
ceedingly rich  in  valuable  and  beautifully  expressed 
thoughts  and  similes ;  the  tone  is  highly  moral  and 
elevating,  and  there  is  an  abundance  of  what,  at  first, 
seems  peculiar,  but  which  proves  to  be  good  and 
sound  philosophical  arguments.  The  author  states 
that  "the  object  of  the  poem  is  to  pay  grateful 
homage  to  useful  minds,  and  to  point  out  various 
avenues  where  we  may  be  led  to  improve  more 
rapidly  in  the  midst  of  so  many  advantages  in  this 
school  of  the  world."  It  is  impossible  to  properly 
analyze  or  even  to  give  a  synopsis  of  the  poem  here, 
so  numerous  and  profound  are  the  themes  which  it 
embraces  and  discourses  on,  but  we  quote  a  few  ex- 
tracts from  which  the  reader  no  doubt  will  be  enabled 
to  form  a  general  idea  of  its  meritorious  character : 


Where,  then,  are  all  our  teachers?    People  look 
As  they  have  right  to  do — for  pabulum 
To  feed  the  intuitions,  and  we  give 
Them  piles  of  chaff  with  but  a  grain  of  gold. 
And  sometimes  not  e'en  that.    They  know  some  things, 
And  they  expect  their  teachers  should  know  more, 
And  so  they  may  in  such  a  favored  school. 
What  then  should  we  exact  of  those  who  l:each  ? 
But  close  adherence  to  the  laws  of  right 


I 


i! 

ii 

'I 


\''-'\: 


1  i 

ii 

,-6 


II 


.-{  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


As  stamped  within  their  being — earnest  men, 
In  knowledge  large,  molded  in  modesty, 
Careful  in  observation,  choice  in  thought, 
Rich  in  resources,  fertile  in  the  stores 
Of  illustration  for  unfolding  truth. 

****** 

To  maintain 
That  we  can  make  no  progress  in  the  line 
Of  spiritual  knowledge  would  be  libellous 
Upon  ourselves  as  minds ;  our  ethics  stand 
On  footing  where  all  innate  truths  agree 
With  revelation,  as  with  nature  also. 
These  innate  springs  exist — a  wondrous  proof 
That  power,  subjective,  personal,  apart 
From  matter,  acts  infusing  energy. 
Here  Hume  and  Locke — philosophers  diverse 
On  Christian  planes — are  staggered,  and  declare 
That  knowledge  must  first  pass  the  ordinary  senses 
Ere  the  will  show  its  bias  and  demeanor ; 
That  these  are  warders  of  the  human  mind. 
Or  keys  to  all  our  world  of  acquisition — 
A  fallacy  that  keener  knowledge  pushed 
Right  to  the  wall  as  worthless  and  unsound. 

***** 

Nor  hesitate  to  study  well  the  plans 
Of  teachers,  pure,  illustrious  in  their  lives. 
As  Pestalozzi  or  as  Arnold — men 
Who  swept  the  depths  of  nature  to  enrich 
The  dawning  genius  of  the  younger  mind. 
But  for  enquiring  men  who  must  be  answered. 
Pierce  everywhere  for  knowledge — nor  be  checked, 
And  make  earth's  friction  your  Bucephalus. 
Grandest  of  records  of  the  eloquent  past 
Is  the  great  book  of  Job — this  read  and  think. 
Whether  in  fact  or  symbol,  here  is  truth. 


i># 


*  ;-'£V>>:i^>w'«<^<S^^ 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


57 


Here  is  the  richest  living  without  surfeit ; 

Here  is  abundance  and  a  bracing  harvest ; 

Here  Providence,  freewill,  necessity. 

Speak  for  a  hearing  ;  here  the  mark  of  law 

Is  shown  as  in  the  whisperings  of  the  wind. 

Here  the  demoniac  wrong,  the  god-like  truth 

Face  without  friction  ;  here  the  blackest  night 

The  brightest  day  look  to  one  sovereignty. 

Poet  and  prophet,  sage  and  seer  combined, 

Job  stands  within  a  hallowed  vestibule 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven — ^and  sees  them  both ; 

But  in  the  garniture  of  primal  truths 

He  will  see  things — nor  thoughtlessly  lets  slip 

One  word  for  human  nature — how  he  showed  it : 

"  I  will  complain  in  the  bitterness  of  my  soul." 

But  rising  to  a  loftier  cadence  sings, 

•'  God  tries  us  that  we  may  come  forth  as  gold." 

Take  the  following  picture  from  the  same  poem : 


Jealousy  is  a  ^ow,  insatiate  fiend, 

And  an  infernal  one.    We  have  watched  men, 

Spotted  by  this  vile  wretch  at  every  turn, 

And  the  more  Jealousy  spattered  them  with  sin. 

The  readier  grew  they  to  be  men  of  honor. 

O  reader,  there  are  simpletons  who  say 

God  makes  no  use  of  evil.     We  have  seen 

The  lusty  blacksmith  working  at  his  forge  ; 

The  cooper  at  his  bench  ;  the  printer,  too, 

Setting  the  type  as  if  to  save  his  soul — 

Stop  suddenly  as  if  some  thundering  voice 

Claimed  their  attention,  and  would  have  it  too. 

And  as  they  listened,  and  by  slow  degrees 

Felt  the  prophetic  import  that  lay  there. 

They  set  themselves  as  students  to  their  work — 

Then  suddenly  swooped  upon  them  foul-mouthed  Slander, 


;i  I 


ss 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Envy  and  inuendo  hedged  them  round, 

While  Falsehood  and  the  whole  ubiquitous  crowd 

Of  hell-born  villainies  pelted  them  with  stones, 

To  quiet  them  forever  ;  and  the  more 

The  enemy  forced  the  battle  the  better  for  them. 

And  so  with  other  evils — they  are  here. 

It  is  not  many,  therefore,  for  the  crowd 

To  censure  providence  for  placing  man 

In  midst  of  such  a  fire— the  curse  remains. 

And  man  must  shun  it  as  a  withering  curse, 

Yet  that  does  not  necessitate  its  fall 

To  pure  negnition — it  is  used  as  a  rod 

To  spur  men  to  their  duty — aye,  to  lash 

Till  the  very  blood,  and  sweat,  and  scalding  tears 

Perfect  the  soul  for  heaven.     It  is  God's  plan. 

It  always  was  His  plan  as  far  as  we  know. 

Age  after  age — ^the  Jew,  Egyptian,  Greek, 

The  bond,  the  free,  all  peoples  of  the  earth, 

Meet  brotherhood  here. 

In  the  higher  fields  of  metaphysical  speculation, 
our  author  stands  on  the  threshold  of  the  temple, 
yet  peers  far  within.  He  does  not  hesitate  to  say 
that  while  he  takes  the  strong  side  of  apriority  in  this 
discussion,  he  is  intensely  interested  if  not  amused  at 
the  antagonisms  of  the  schools  of  mind. 

With  what  keen  sarcasm  he  touches  on  this  : 

Men  who  shun  good  evidence, 
Lacking  k  priori  sense, 
Never  can  and  never  will 
Teach  the  God-given  principle 
That  innate  powers  rule  the  mind — 
God's  reflection  on  mankind. 


'^ii^ 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


59 


Learned  Spinoza  gave  them  bread, 
Yet  they  knocked  him  on  the  head, 
Never  recking  their  best  creed 
Was  part  outgrowth  of  his  seed. 
Berkeley  raised  their  souls  to  tune, 
When  they  called  the  man  a  loon. 
And  when  Kant,  with  fine  degrees 
Of  his  famed  antinomies, 
Tried  to  please  them  as  himself, 
They  soon  placed  him  on  the  shelf, 
Saying  glibly-let  him  rot, 
God  is  nowher^i  in  his  thought. 
Descartes,  Leibnitz,  Hume  and  Locke 
Served  some  readers  as  a  rock. 
Where  they  gladly  sate  awhile. 
Hoped  to  build  their  home,  and  smile, 
When,  lo,  Ficht^,  Schelling  come, 
Knock  the  head  off  their  bass  drum, 
Who  in  turn  are  knocked  about 
By  proud  Hegel  to  a  rout. 
He  sets  all  the  world  on  fire, 
Then  gets  branded  as  a  liar. 

•'The  Vindication/'  in  iambic  double  rhyme 
quatrains  (which  the  author  says  rather  handicapped 
him)  extends  over  two  thousand  lines,  and  embraces 
the  large  field  of  being,  purpose,  duty,  etc.  The 
sages  of  history  are  called  upon  in  illustration.  Our 
intuitions,  he  says,  are  but  celestial  fires  hidden  in 
the  mind,  but  which  manifest  an  occasional  super- 
radiance  through  environment  and  education.  We 
quote : 

Mysterious  voices,  calm,  subdued, 
Break  silence  in  the  soul ; 


^ 


do 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS, 


li 


No  fascination,  faith  nor  feud, 

Can  cease  their  solemn  roll. 
No  known  experience  checks  their  sway, 

No  learning  tints  their  tone  ; 
The  mind  pursues  its  wonted  way. 

Respectful  of  their  zone. 
Whence  come  they  ?  what  their  work  on  earth  ? 

Questions  we  fain  would  trace ; 
For  in  them  order  has  its  birth, 

Bxistence  has  its  place. 
The  thoughtful  crowd  the  varied  schools, 

Their  cult  to  analyze ; 
Philosophy  projects  new  rules 

To  pierce  within  their  skies. 
Unknown,  the  multitude  yet  act, 

Determined  by  their  power  ; 
Without  them  life  would  lose  its  pact. 

No  nation  live  an  hour. 

"Cygnus"  is  a  fine  concise  piece  of  reasoning 
on  the  stability  of  the  universe,  and  immortality 
of  the  soul.  The  author  states  that  the  negations  of 
Bryant's  **  Thanatopsis"  urged  him  to  the  undertak- 
ing. Order  and  purpose  in  the  universe  he  lays 
down  as  basal  grounds.  This  poem  with  "Duty" 
we  take  to  be  some  of  his  best  work.  **  Duty"  in- 
deed is  a  masterpiece,  and  will  bear  extensive  and 
close  reading.  We  are  called  to  answer  the  question, 
why  we  are  here.  The  tone  is  cheerful  as  he  prr  - 
ceeds,  but  we  feel  as  we  go  onward  that  we  ox'-  «  ^r- 
ing  sacred  ground. 

Deep  themes  require  deep  thinkers — like  large  seab, 
Where  only  seamen  of  great  skill  may  plough 
The  waves  with  pleasure  as  with  triumph  also. 


REV,  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


6/ 


For  eager  crowds  are  waiting  at  the  door. 
Art  thou  a  teacher  ?    Answer  if  thou  canst 
Their  questionings.     Our  fickle  age  needs  men — 
Not  pulish  folk,  tickling  the  ear  with  straws, 
Nor  those  from  cushions  of  opinion,  soft 
As  silk  ;  nor  those  so  feeble,  they  forget 
They  wield  a  purpose  ;  nor  the  virile  throng 
Who  always  furbish  up,  to  batter  dpwn, 
If  it  be  possible,  the  rugged  walls 
That  keep  men  in  the  realm  of  character. 

For  look  at  man — those  crowds  who  brush  us  by 
In  city  life,  like  some  strange  tournament ; 
Look  at  those  pensive  eyes — that  iron  brow — 
That  brazen  furrow — that  intensive  seal 
Upon  the  lips — that  endless  stream  of  tears 
Speaking  a  language  :  there  is  appetite ; 
There  rages  thirst,  like  some  leviathan's 
Out  of  his  element.     What  want  they  all  ? 
What  are  those  sighs  and  yearnings,  but  a  thirst 
For  God  and  rest — for  beauty,  heaven  and  home  ? 
All  men  have  some  like  qualities ;  they  speak 
A  single  language  though  in  varied  frame. 
And  they  all  show  allegiance  to  some  king, 
To  God  or  antigod.    They  know  their  stay 
Terrestrial  binds  them  to  a  throne,  and  then 
They  walk  as  if  within  their  cunning  hand 
They  carry  years  and  wisdom.    What  they  need 
Is  will,  and  consciousness  of  rectitude 
That  prompt  volition — purpose  to  declare 
And  act  a  life  of  duty — vehemence 
To  push  the  positive  right  to  the  goal. 

So  go  and  view  the  crowd,  remembering 
Thy  path  is  upward.     Were  not  Socrates, 
Spinoza  and  Lord  Bacon  men  thrice  armed 
For  wide  advance  in  knowledge  ?    So  to  them 
Pay  thou  obeisance — but  aim  farther,  higher. 


I 


I 


6^ 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POhTS. 


liv! 
11*  i 


\% 


Seek  not  their  level — there  is  consonance 
In  word  and  mission  with  the  gifted  past. 
Life  has  its  stairs,  with  giant  steps  afore 
Like  towering  Andes  ;  view  the  apex  then, 
Nor  halt  till  thou  stand'st  on  it.    Most  take  aim 
So  low,  that  children,  slim  in  precedent. 
Grow  weak,  exhausted  ere  the  day  grows  warm, 
And  fall  like  feeble  wax  dollo  near  the  fire. 

Not  he  who  writes  or  speaks,  or  flourishes 
Tropes  and  enigmas,  then,  but  he  who  thinks. 
And  makes  men  think — he  is  the  noblest  man 
To  nourish  men.     But  where  may  such  be  schooled  ? 
Some  men  embrace  the  sore  and  torturing  thought 
That  life  is  not  worth  living — that  the  hue 
And  make  of  our  existence  has  no  aim 
But  that  of  blind  fatuity — and,  worse 
Than  all,  that  man  is  but  a  wreck  whose  thought 
Can  not  be  trusted  for  the  place  he  fills. 
So  life  runs  daily  on.    Some  dig  for  gold. 
Eat  it,  and  die  ;  some  potter  afler  fame. 
And  lie  like  devils  to  secure  it ;  some 
Court  sharp  duplicity,  to  find  a  pot 
Of  manna  hidden  there — O  bitter  food  ! 
All  pursuivants  of  fortune,  on  the  march, 
All  waiting  revelations — not  in  vain. 

Neither  in  the  field  of  keen  satire  and  grim  humor 
is  Mr.  Ross  defective.  He  has  shown  this  in  "A 
Planetary  Visit/' — over  a  thousand  lines  in  trochaic 
verse.  This  piece  of  pleasantry  is  constantly  bub- 
bling over  with  caprices  of  a  weird  and  versatile  genius 
Arcturus,  a  stranger  from  some  stellar  domain,  pays 
a  visit  to  earth,  and  what  with  his  flights  from  city 
to  city,  his  visit  to  the  churches,  to  the  brokers. 


t* 


I. 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


63 


politicians,  the  nondescipt  Tammany,  and  what  not, 
the  reader's  enthusiasm  is  kept  up  to  the  highest 
pitch. 

Among  Mr.  Ross's  poems  which  we  have  read 
with  sincere  pleasure  are  *'  The  Prophecy,"  **  John 
Knox,"  *' Fifty- four,"  a  good  health  tonic  by  the 
way;  ♦♦The  Scotch -Irish  Family,''  "William  of 
Ora.'ige,"  etc.  His  patriotic  tnuse  is  firm  and  vigor- 
ous, his  love  of  freedom  is  intense  ;  as  witness 
his  "Freedom,"  to  the  tune  of  "Scots  wha  hae," 
*' America,'s  Redemption,"  which  has  had  a  large 
sale  in  the  United  States,  and  "The  Public  School," 
which  forms  a  characteristic  feature  of  his  writings. 

Let  us  go  with  our  author  into  the  inner  temple, 
and  learn  something  of  the  sacredness  of  his  life. 
Failing  health  a  few  years  ago  urged  him  to  travel. 
He  says  : 

Earth  gave  to  me  its  share  of  bliss  and  hale, 
But  when  I  analyzed  this  thing  called  Sin, 
And  its  dire  progeny,  I  cried  for  shame, 
And  left  the  lap  of  woe  for  joy's  embrace. 

He  seeks  in  a  healthy  altruism,  and  in  the  path- 
way of  Christian  heroism,  gentleness  and  resignation 
an  antidote  for  every  ill.  How  well  he  touches 
upon  this  in  the  lines  : 

PATIENCE. 

Thou  beautiful !    fair  as  the  sun, 
And  richer  than  all  human  wealth. 

Dear  love,  the  race  that  I  have  run 
Is  tinctured  with  thy  hues  of  health. 


64 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


u 


;!| 


How  sad  my  lot,  morose,  unkind, 
Till  thy  sweet  presence  fell  on  mine  ! 

Then  opened  out  the  strength  of  mind, 
Then  glowed  my  path  with  light  divine. 

Then  cheerfulness  sang  her  refrain. 

What  active  virtues  roused  my  heart ! 
Far  fled  the  agonies  of  pain. 

And  joys  came  in  to  share  their  part. 

Thou  child  of  God — where'er  I  go, 

In  all  my  visits  to  my  kind, 
I  ask  my  Father  to  bestow 

The  radiance  of  thy  heavenly  mind. 

O  then  what  sunshine  fills  the  home  ! 

For  faith  and  love  are  there  to  greet. 
Dear  Patience,  glad  that  thou  art  come, 

I  lay  this  tribute;  at  thy  feet. 

GOD. 


lifi  HI' 


God  and  His  Record — truths  enough  for  me 

To  ponder  faithfully  while  dwelling  here. 

Some  fence  themselves  with  creeds,  and  live  in  fear, 
Like  children  out  upon  an  angry  sea. 
Who  speaks  within  and  opens  there  a  feast 

Of  daintiest  things — He  is  my  I/)rd  and  Guest. 
I«et  Him  be  great,  and  let  me  be  the  least. 

He  made  me  of  the  dust,  but,  with  a  zest 
Supremely  wise.  He  breathed  upon  the  clay, 

And  lo,  I  live  !    And  thus  whene'er  His  hand 
Knocks  at  the  palace  door  my  heart  is  gay, 

Robed  in  a  splendor  earth  cannot  command. 
For  all  His  words  are  galaxies  of  grace. 
And  Christ,  enthroned  within,  makes  glad  the  holy  place. 


^i 


I 


^ 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ROSS. 


65 


EGO. 

How  wonderful  it  is  to  be  ! 

To  know  that  this  is  truth. 
To  feel  thy  pulse,  eternity, 

A  never-ending  youth. 

While  on  my  visit  to  the  earth 
Clothed  as  a  human  tree, 

I  read  the  splendors  of  my  birth 
That  tell  me  I  am  free. 


m\ 


My  spirit  nowhere  is  confined  ; 

It  spans  the  maze  between. 
Deep  in  the  ocean  of  the  mind 

The  infinite  is  seen. 

How  strangely  grand  the  palace  fair 
That  Providence  designed  ! 

And  pre-established  with  such  care 
As  wardrobe  of  the  mind. 


How  gently  gravitation  holds 

This  fabric  while  I  stay  ! 
A  few  hours  hence  the  flower  unfolds 

And  then  I  fly  away. 

What  fields  of  glory  I  may  tread 
Far  in  the  vast  unknown  ! 

One  lesson  I  have  ever  read, 
I  never  am  alone. 


Within  this  garden  of  my  God 
There  is  no  room  for  strife. 

The  day,  the  night,  the  suns  abroad 
Speak  of  eternal  life. 


i 


>m  ti 


■  m 


66 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


The  little  floweret  in  the  vase 
That  speaks  a  language  pleasant — 

E'en  there  I  gladly  see  some  phase 
Of  Thee,  Thou  ever  Present. 

And  midst  such  symbols  of  Thy  power, 

Meek,  tender,  true  and  clear, 
I  lengthen  out  this  little  hour, 

And  never  know  a  fear. 

Some  voice  keeps  ringing  in  my  heart 

That  in  my  near  translation 
I  may  behold  the  sacred  chart 

That  opens  up  creation. 

ECCE    VITA. 

Let  no  man  tell  me  this  is  death  or  woe 

When  once  my  mantle  drops  within  the  ground. 

Love,  nature,  wisdom  shame  us  at  the  sound. 

There  is  eternity  within  the  flow 

Of  my  gradation  in  my  upward  climb, 

Where  years  are  never  counted,  nor  the  rhyme 

Of  suns  and  cycles  weary  as  I  go. 

An  inner  anthem  whispers  of  my  life. 

This  is  my  heritage,  that  hierophants — 

Who  lack  the  wisdom  even  of  the  ants — 

Dare  to  condemn  beneath  their  load  of  strife. 

While  thus  I  live,  upbuilding  all  the  way. 

And  soar  the  galleries  of  my  Father's  house 

With  tread  celestial,  myiiads  like  the  mouse 

Go  creeping  in  dark  holes,  and  live  their  day. 

Be  this"_their  embassy,  it  is  not  mine. 

I  give  my  heaven-born  faculties  full  play. 

There  is  no  dissonance  in  their  divine. 


*aWtfuwM 


REV.  ARCH/BALD  ROSS. 


67 


They  bear  the  impress  of  the  Master  hand 

That  framed  the  earth  'mid  music,  whose  grand  thrill 

Flashed  into  being  man  with  God  crowned  will, 

The  coronet  of  the  Divine  command. 

This,  then,  is  life,  yet  man,  how  strange  to  tell. 

Strives  night  and  day  to  make  this  heaven  a  hell. 


VINDICATORY. 

I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

No  •    never  be  it  said 
That  I  have  plowed  through  sun  and  rain 

My  brother's  blood  to  shed. 
No !    Mercy's  thousand  voices  cry  : 
For  him  I  live,  for  him  I  die. 

Away  down  in  the  deeps 

Of  sorrow  let  me  go, 
And  light  a  smile  where  anguish  creeps 

Around  the  house  of  woe. 
Where  men  are  wont  to  groan  and  bleed — 
There  let  me  sow  a  righteous  seed, 

Nor  weary  feel  nor  faint ; 

God  is  my  life,  my  plea. 
There  is  no  penury,  no  attaint 

In  His  eternity. 
And  thus  each  day  I  count  my  gain. 
No,  no  f    I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

The  Rev.  Archibald  Ross  is  a  well  known  laborer 
in  the  Methodist  Church.  He  was  born  at  Charlotte- 
town,  Prince  Edward  Island,  in  1835,  and  was  the 
ninth  child  of  a  family  of  eleven,  children.  "  I 
came,"  he  says,  "of  a  hardy  Scotch  stock.     On  my 


I 


! 


i 


s 


68 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


father's  side,  his  people  were  farmers,  and  lived  in 
Ross-shire,  Scotland.  I  know  but  little  of  my 
mother's  lineage :  she  was  a  MacGregor  of  Argyle, 
who  always  reverenced  the  pine  as  an  emblem  of  her 
fealty,  and  carried  about  a  large  share  of  family 
pride  in  consequence.  One  of  her  grand-uncles  fell 
at  Prestonpans  fighting  for  the  Scottish  pretender, 
and  another  with  Wolfe  at  the  conquest  of  Quebec. " 
After  receiving  a  common  school  education,  Mr. 
Ross  was  apprenticed  in  his  thirteenth  year  to  a 
printer  in  Montreal,  but  some  years  later  he  took  a 
course  of  theology  in  Queen's  College,  Kingston, 
Canada,  and  labored  successfully  both  in  the  pulpit 
and  the  press  prior  to  his  arrival  in  Brooklyn  in  1876. 
He  was  married  in  1856  to  Miss  E.  A.  Tempany  of 
London,  England,  a  lady  of  pleasing  address  and 
much  intelligence.  Three  children  are  all  that  re- 
main out  of  seven.  Jessie  Elizabeth,  the  eldest,  well 
fitted  from  excellent  balance  of  temperament  to  do 
well  in  the  line  she  has  chosen,  conducts  a  private 
school  in  Brooklyn.  Archibald,  aged  thirty,  is  en- 
gaged with  prospects  of  good  success  in  various  lines 
of  music;  while  Frederick  Edward,  the  youngest, 
full  of  promise  and  possessed  of  some  insight  as  to 
the  arcana  of  poetic  philosophy,  is  now  carrying  on 
in  Minnesota  successful  work  in  the  ministry. 


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ii 


HON.  CHAS.   H.  COUJNS. 


■mmi^ 


HON.  CHAS.   H.   COLLINS. 


"The  New  Year  Comes  My  Lady,"  a  daintily- 
bound  volume  of  poetry  by  the  Hon.  Charles  H. 
Collins,  has  reached  me  all  the  way  from  the  pro- 
gressive and  pleasantly  situated  town  of  Hillsboro, 
Ohio.  I  say  poetry,  because,  as  far  as  my  judgement 
goes  in  such  matters,  the  forty  or  more  pieces  con- 
tained in  the  little  book  are  well  worthy  of  having 
this  flattering  and  honorable  distinction  accorded  to 
them.  They  are  exceedingly  well  written,  happily 
conceived  and  in  excellent  taste,  while  the  sterling 
merit  that  characterizes  the  majority  of  them  proves 
that  their  author  possesses  the  heart  and  the  feelings, 
as  well  as  the  imagination  of  a  true  son  of  song.  I 
think  it  was  Sydney  Smith  who  said  of  Hanna  More's 
writings:  "We  hear  testimony  to  her  talents,  her 
good  sense,  and  her  real  piety.  There  occur  every 
now  and  then  in  her  productions  very  original  and 
profound  observations.  Her  advice  is  often  charac- 
terized by  the  most  amiable  good  sense,  and  conveyed 
in  the  most  brilliant  and  inviting  style, "  and  the  same 
may  in  all  sincerity  be  applied  to  the  poems  of  Mr. 
Collins,  as  there  is  not  a  line  or  a  verse  in  them  that 
is  not  appropriate  and  chaste  and  entertaining.  I 
have  indeed  found  them  delightful  reading,  and  have 
lingered  lovingly  among  them,  as  indeed  will  every 
one  who  loves  smooth  and  musical  and  unaffected 


70 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


■M 


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'■% 


verse.     A  brief  specimen  of  his  charming  style  may 
be  found  in  the  following: 

CLERMONT  DAYS. 

We  look  from  the  front  veranda 

On  the  slopes  against  the  sky, 
Where  the  rays  of  sunshine  glitter 

On  the  clouds  slow  sailing  by. 
We  watch  the  shadows  trooping  flit 

O'er  the  distant  hills  away, 
Like  phantoms  of  the  by -gone  years 

Where  dreamy  fancies  stray  ; 
Of  days  in  our  youth  in  Clermont, 

With  life  in  all  its  charm, 
Where  never  had  risen  shadow 

On  the  Old  Ancestral  Farm. 

The  smoke  of  the  village  chimneys 

Rises  in  the  wintry  air, 
And  the  snow  upon  the  beaten  road 

Is  beautiful  and  fair. 
There  is  sound  of  jingling  sleigh  bells. 

Glad  voices  from  the  hill, 
Come  floating  down  the  vistas 

With  well  remembered  thrill. 
Back  come  the  days  of  Clermont, 

With  life  in  all  its  charm, 
On  the  East  Fork  of  Miami 

And  the  Old  Ancestral  Farm. 

There  was  mystery  in  the  future 
While  the  passing  hour  was  blest. 

There  was  nothing  of  foreboding 
That  the  heavens  could  suggest ; 

There  was  never  thought  of  troubles, 
There  was  never  cause  for  tears, 


ly 


HON,  ChAS.  H.  COLLINS. 


71 


There  was  never  hint  of  failures 
Or  of  sorrow  in  the  years 

In  the  days  we  lived  in  Clermont 
With  life  in  all  its  charm, 

In  Batavia's  happy  valley 
On  the  Old  Ancestral  Farm. 


There  were  friends  in  famous  Clermont, 

These  friends  were  kind  and  true, 
Where  the  East  Fork  of  Miami 

Gleamed  in  its  sunny  hue. 
So  at  dawning  and  at  twilight 

With  the  skies  aflame  in  gold, 
We  think  of  the  years  in  Clermont, 

In  the  youthful  time  of  old. 
And  the  fleeing  clouds  and  shadows 

Are  penciled  with  a  charm, 
Just  as  when  in  Batavia 

On  the  Old  Ancestral  Farm. 


\ 


Quite  a  number  of  Mr.  Collins'  poems  are  on 
simple,  every-day  subjects,  but  the  themes  in  them 
in  every  instance  are  treated  so  tenderly,  and  the 
sentiments  expressed  are  so  natural,  that  they  im- 
mediately touch  a  responsive  chord  in  our  hearts, 
and  we  learn  to  love  the  poems  first  on  this  account, 
and  next  on  account  of  their  genuine  simplicity. 
Such  a  poem  is  the  one  entitled,  "The  Little 
Children."  There  is  no  straining  after  effect  here, 
no  grand  display  of  fine  sounding  words,  no  mean- 
ingless metaphors ;  nothing  but  simple,  easily  under- 
stood language,  and  yet  what  a  crowd  of  golden 
thoughts  for  the  little  ones  are  interwoven  through 


1 


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i|  U 


72 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


the  verses.     Truly  a  poem  of  this  kind,  simple  thoug^h 
it  be,  is  worthy  of  preservation : 

Play  on,  dear  children,  have  your  fun, 

Take  pleasure  while  you  may  ; 
No  spots  appear  upon  your  sun, 

No  clouds  obscure  your  day. 
Your  cheeks,  like  roses  blushing  red, 

Life  has  for  you  no  thorn  ; 
Then  play  till  time  to  go  to  bed, 

And  play  again  at  morn. 

The  years  will  stay  these  little  feet, 

Which  now  so  blithely  run ; 
And  footsteps  lag  upon  the  street 

When  weary  day  is  done  ; 
Those  little  hands  will  rougher  grow, 

That  now  can  only  play, 
And  trouble  then,  the  heart  will  know, 

Where  all  is  now  so  gay. 


Those  pretty  eyes  \dll  lose  their  light, 

The  voice  will  change  its  tone, 
The  tropic  tints  which  fill  your  sight 

Will  fade  in  frigid  zone, 
Play  on,  play  on,  this  charming  earth 

Is  made  for  such  as  you  ; 
For  you  its  beauty,  joy  and  mirth. 

Its  gleam  of  sunny  hue. 

Play  on,  play  on,  end  do  not  mind 
What  cross  old  grannies  say  ; 

Such  people  should  be  deaf  and  blind- 
Play  on,  dear  children,  play. 


•'' '  1 


HON.  CHAS.  H.  COLLINS. 


73 


Play  on,  play  on,  for  night  will  soon 
Its  sullen  sceptre  sway. 

And  evening  close  on  childhood's  noon- 
Play  on,  play  on,  to-day. 

To-morrow  there  will  quiet  reign. 

Enthroned  in  silence,  where 
This  childish  music  makes  refrain. 

This  laughter  fills  the  air. 
To-morrow  desolation's  gloom 

Broods  o'er  the  empty  hall, 
No  pattering  footsteps  in  the  room, 

No  children's  voices  call. 


To-morrow,  mute  the  little  lips, 

And  still  the  restless  feet ! 
The  little  hands,  with  marble  tips. 

On  pulseless  bosom  meet. 
O,  where  is  then  the  merry  glee, 

The  children's  jocund  play. 
The  joyous  romping,  glad  and  free  ?— 

Let  children  play  to-day  ! 

My  hair  is  gray  !  the  years  have  set 

Their  signet  on  my  brow, 
But  nmst  I  in  old  age  forget 

The  little  children  now  ? 
'Tis  true  I  cannot  jump  and  run 

December  is  not  May, 
Don't  mind  me,  children,  have  your  fun. 

Dear  children,  play  to-day. 

Play  on,  play  on,  for  time  is  brief, 

To  you  that  seems  so  long, 
And  coming  age— the  wrinkled  thief, 

Will  hush  your  childish  song. 


.1 


74 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


L,ife  is  a  game  r^rhere  clouds  abound, 

And  falsehood  wins  the  day  ; 
In  childhood  trust  and  truth  are  found — 

Let  children  play  to-day  ! 

To  return  to  Mr.  Collm'  book,  I  can  say  I  was 
surprised  on  first  glancing  over  it  at  the  variety  of 
subjects  on  which  his  muse  had  alighted.  There  are 
poems  in  the  book  on  "  The  Highland  Hills,"  *'  The 
Emerald  Isle,"  **  The  Onole,"  "The  Waning  Year," 
"The  Abbey  of  Saint  Denis,"  "The  Old  Farm 
House,"  "  In  the  Hammock,"  "  By  Woodland  Paths," 
"At  Fort  Douglas,"  "  A  Reminiscence  of  Manitou," 
"Pueblo,"  "Vespers,"  "Napoleon,"  "Midnight  in 
the  Glen,"  etc.,  etc.  All  more  or  less  beautiful  and 
all  bearing  the  imprint  of  poetic  genius  in  their  com- 
position and  construction.  As  a  poet,  Mr.  Collins' 
rhymes  are  perfect,  his  descriptions  graphic,  his 
language  choice,  and  his  fancy  luxuriant  and  pleas- 
ing. Here  is  a  cluster  of  sweet  thoughts  culled  at 
random  from  his  writings : 

From  "The  Snow  Flower:" 

Thus  in  the  dreariest  spots  in  life, 

The  flowers  of  hope  may  spring  ; 
To  banish  grief  from  earthly  lot, 

A  transient  fitting  thing. 
For  every  one  climbs  mountain  heights, 

Each  in  our  several  way, 
To  find  our  visions  of  delight 

Like  snow  flowers  fade  away  : 


t> '    >l 


HON.  CM  AS.  II.  COLLINS. 


75 


From  "Napoleon:" 


Alone  he  stands  upon  the  rugged  shore, 

Where  beats  the  spray  ;  mid  sullen  breakers'  roar. 

The  ocean  waves  dash  o'er  the  rocks  in  foam, 

And  howling  surge  around  his  fsland  home. 

Far  off  are  phantom  sails  whicii  mock  his  sight 

And  glide  away  in  endless  lines  of  light. 

Day  follows  day,  and  darkness  comes  and  goes, 

Alone  he  lives  amid  his  hated  foes. 

Yet  proud  and  stern,  he  gives  no  sign  of  pain, 

The  cruel  jailer's  taunts  are  all  in  vain. 

Down,  down  where  scoundrels  in  perdition  lie 

Let  Lowe's  base  memory  forever  die. 

While,  as  the  eternal  cyck-s  roll  along, 

Napoleon  still  the  theme  of  Gallic  song. 

Shall  live  triumphant  on  historic  pages, 

The  greatest  man  of  all  recorded  ages. 

For  Nature  made  but  one,  then  broke  the  mold. 

All  else  is  silver,  this  was  purest  gold  ; 

And  all  the  malice,  spleen,  and  petty  .spite 

But  show  the  hero  in  a  brighter  light. 

To  grow  aiii'  st/engthen  as  the  years  increase, 

Nor  fade  or  pale,  till  Time  itself  shall  cease. 


From  "\e!.pors:" 


O,  blessed,  blessed  eventide, 

When  vesper  hymns  arise, 
And  labor  lays  its  toils  aside 

And  turns  to  God  its  eyes  ; 
Who  has  not  felt  in  this  sweet  hour, 

What'er  his  trials  were, 
That  time  would  come,  no  earthly  power 

Could  bring  again  despair  ? 


:  '■  (■.: 


76 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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From  '*  Midnight  in  the  Gien:" 

But  still  the  blue  sky  smiles  above, 

So  saintly  and  so  fair, 
And  wild  flowers  whisper  as  they  hear 

These  voices  of  the  air. 
Soft  voices  chann  to  dreams  unsought, 

In  Nature's  temples  then, 
And  in  the  valley  all  is  peace. 

At  midnight  in  the  glen. 
There  is  an  eye  by  day  or  night. 

Its  vigils  still  will  keep. 
On  mountain  crest  and  valley  lone, 

Where  mortals  never  sleep  ; 
So  thou  but  trust  thine  all  to  Him 

And  to  His  words  be  true, 
Nor  mountain  sprite,  nor  midnight  gnome, 

Can  harm  bring  unto  you. 

From  "  The  Misanthrope:" 

O,  seek  for  pleasure  in  this  life,  as  swiftly  pass  the  years  ; 
Take  interest  in  your  fellow-men,  their  hopes,  their  plans, 

their  fears ; 
Read  of  the  men  whose  monuments  are  builded  in  the  heart, 
Their  speculations,  goodly  schemes,  where  mankind  took  a 

part. 
In  business,  love,  or  politics,  the  golden  moments  fly  ; 
The  busy  man  finds  beauty  still  in  earth,  in  air,  in  sky  ; 
Or,  if  you  choose  in  fashion's  throng,  or  churches'  graver  tone. 
Go  mingle  with  the  human  crowd  who  do  not  live  alone. 

From  "Coming  Home:" 

And  nearer,  still  nearer 

Till  bathed  in  the  light. 
The  Star  Spangled  emblem 

Is  flashed  on  the  sight. 


HON.  CHAS.  H.  COLLINS. 


77 


One  moment  we  linger, 
The  tender  has  come. 

Farewell  to  the  ocean 
And  welcome  our  home. 


From  the  poem  that  gives  the  t"tle  to  his  latest 
volume,  "The  New  Year  Comes  My  Lady:" 

The  New  Year  comes  my  lady, 

At  twelve  the  old  year  died. 
Its  burdens  trailing  after, 

Its  worries  cast  aside — 
In  the  drapery  ot  silence, 

In  the  shadows  of  the  pall 
Its  troubles — its  distresses 

Are  now  beyond  recall. 

The  morning  dawns  my  lady. 

The  tints  in  eastern  sky 
Are  tokens  of  the  coming  day 

And  hopes  that  must  not  die — 
For  the  readings  of  the  future 

In  the  horoscope  are  bright ; 
Forbodings  and  repinings 

Have  vanished  with  the  night. 


The  sun  is  up  my  lady, 

There's  glory  in  his  face 
As  he  fills  the  earth  with  beauty 

And  crow?is  the  hills  with  grace  ; 
Now  as  we  make  our  orisons, 

Comes  voice  froM  Galilee  : 
"  Let  the  dead  buty  the  dead  ; 

Do  thou  but  follow  me." 


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,1:  :^ 


78 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


The  work  is  waiting,  lady, 

An  antidote  to  harm  ; 
Charity  with  its  blessing. 

Duties  with  their  charm  ; 
For  work  makes  life  a  pleasant  thing, 

There  is  no  time  for  woe  ; 
And  bitter  thoughts  are  banished 

Because  we  will  it  so. 

And  the   following  from   a   poem   entitled, 
Henry  W.  Hope's,"  Paint  Creek,  Ohio. 


(( 


At 


Green  in  the  forest,  blue  in  the  sky. 
Calm  in  the  spirit,  as  waters  flow  by  ; 
The  azure  above,  the  currents  low  tone, 
Gives  token  that  man,  is  with  nature  alone. 

The  soul  drifts  away,  from  hurry  and  clatter, 
The  ear  is  not  vexed  by  unmeaning  chatter  ; 
The  music  we  hear  as  we  lie  at  our  ease, 
Is  murmur  of  stream  and  rustle  of  trees. 


t^ 


T3 


Around  us  spreads  far  the  land  of  the  fay, 
Who  guards  us  by  night  and  cheers  us  by  day, 
Mid  the  portals  of  glory  with  nature  we  stand. 
And  nature  extends  us  a  welcoming  hand. 

Mr.  Collins  is  a  lawyer  with  an  extensive  practice, 
and  resides  in  Hillboro,  Ohio.  He  was  born  in  May- 
ville,  Ky.,  in  1832,  and  is  the  son  of  General  Richard 
Collins,  who  achieved  distinction  in  Ohio  and  Ken- 
tucky as  a  lawyer  and  legislator.  His  grandfather 
was  the  Rev.  John  Collins,  one  of  the  pioneer  Meth- 
odist preachers  of  the  country  and  whose  biography 


\y^ 


HON.  CHAS.  H.  COLLINS. 


79 


was  written  by  no  less  eminent  a  person  than  Judge 
John  McLean,  of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court. 
Mr.  Collins  is  a  well  educated  gentleman,  and  pos- 
sesses a  fine  library.  He  has  traveled  extensively 
both  in  Europe  and  America,  and,  although  he  loves 
travel  very  much,  still  we  can  easily  learn  from 
many  of  his  poems  that  he  is  a  firm  believer  with 
John  Howard  Payne  that  "There's  no  place  like 
home."  He  was  admiited  to  the  Ohio  Bar  at 
Batavia,  Clermont  County,  Ohio,  May  12,  1854,  was 
prosecuting  attorney  of  that  county.  Removed  to 
Missouri  and  was  in  extensive  practice  there  for 
several  years,  returning  to  Ohio  in  1865,  located  in 
Hillsboro,  and  has  since  been  resident  of  that  city. 

A  friend  to  whom  I  applied  for  some  private  in- 
formation regarding  Mr.  Collins  replied  as  follows: 
"You  must  make  special  mention  of  the  following 
points:" 

First,  as  to  his  power  of  endurance,  due  to  a  ming- 
ling of  English  and  Scotch-Irish  blood,  to  the  opti- 
mistic tone  of  his  thoughts,  always  looking  to  the 
better  side  of  men  and  things,  always  hopeful,  never 
pessimistic,  never  despairing,  never  making  excuses 
or  shifting  blame  on  others,  but  taking  up  burdens 
as  they  come  and  bearing  them. 

Second,  to  a  high  regard  for  the  sacred  character 
■  of  obligations  and  absolute  inviolability  of  a  prom- 
ise, perfect  faith  in  all  business  matters,  regard  foi 
interests  of  clients,  fairness  to  brethren  of  the  Bar, 
courtesy  in  trials. 


I 


8o 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


i  ! 


Third,  accuracy  of  research  and  facility  in  appli- 
cation of  authorities  to  a  case  on  trial,  memory  of 
cases  and  dates,  readiness  of  speech,  and  ease  and 
self  possession  when  difficulties  surround  the 
qiiestion. 

Fourth,  a  certain  style  of  adcaptandum  eloqiience 
well  calculated  to  conciliate,  and  persuade  so  as  to 
make  one  effective  on  all  occasions  of  public  speak- 
ing where  no  time  is  allowed  for  preparation. 

These  qualities  are  acquired  by  thorough  literary 
research,  familiarity  with  all  the  range  of  Belles 
Letters  and  from  a  memory  thai  retain^',  all  it  has 
once  received. 

The  above  will  be  recognized  by  all  who  know 
him,  as  true  to  the  letter.  In  short  he  is  never  at 
fault  for  either  words  or  modes  of  expres.sion. 

Mr.  Collins  is  the  author  of  a  number  of  books, 
among  them  being,  "  Echoes  from  Highland  Hills," 
'  •  Our  Common  Schools, "  '  •  Wibbleton  to  Wobbleton, " 
'•Highland  Hills  to  an  Emperor's  Tomb,"  ''The 
Love  of  the  Beautiful,"  and  others.  He  is  also  a 
constant  contributor  to  the  local  papers,  as  well  as 
to  a  number  of  magazines  and  religious  journals. 
Ar-ong  the  poems  published  since  his  book,  "The 
New  Year  Comes,  My  Lady,"  was  issued,  is  one  en- 
titled, "At  Two  Seasons. "  I  would  like  to  introduce 
this  poem  here,  as  it  is  a  favorite  with  many  people. 
Mr.  Collins  says:  "Last  Summer  kept  me  supplied 
with  dainty  sweet  peas  by  a  charming  lady.  Last 
Christmas   the  lilies  bought  of   a  chinee  took  their 


M 


\ 


HON.  CHAS.  H.  COLLINS. 


8l 


place  on  my  ofifice  table.     Hence  the  verses; 


AT  TWO  SEASONS. 


I. 


SWEET  PEAS. 

In  story  books  old  legends  tell, 

How  on  mid-summer  day, 
Unto  the  strolling  forester, 

Unbidden  cor/ies  the  fay — 
To  place  within  his  eager  hand, 

Ere  withered  in  the  light, 
The  roses  culled  at  blush  of  dawn 

To  gladden  mortals  sight. 

How  dewy  fresh  in  glowing  tints, 

With  all  of  nature  there, 
The  emblem  of  a  fairy  soul 

And  gentle  spirit's  care — 
What  value  have  mere  earth-born  plants 

Scattered  along  the  way, 
When  we  may  have  the  fairy  gifts 

Upon  mid-summer  day. 

No  bloom  from  Oriental  Isles, 

No  tropic  fragrance  rare, 
No  flowering  shrubs  of  north  or  west 

With  fairy  gifts  compare. 
'*  And  is  the  legend  true,"  you  say? 

' '  Of  course — for  on  my  stand, 
Are  sweet  peas  culled  mid-summer  day 

By  Highland  fairy's  hand." 


. 


•I 


n 


Si 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


m 


II. 

CHINESE  LILIES. 

Oh,  gone  are  the  fleeting  summer  days, 

A  touching  memory  now  ; 
And  winter  crowns  with  ice  and  snow 

Each  mountain's  rugged  brow. 
The  fairy  charm  no  longer  lasts, 

But  hideous  on  the  stand 
The  Christmas  lily  buds  and  blooms, 

From  "  Hop  Lung's  "  dirty  hand. 

The  little  bulb  has  sprouted  forth 

Amid  the  laundry  steam, 
By  darken'd  bunks,  where  opium  fiends 

Indulge  their  horrid  dream. 
Then  forth  into  the  market  place 

Is  huckjjtered  to  and  fro, 
By  pig-tailed  heathen  yellow  men — 

"  Hop  Lung  "  and  *'  Hi-ang-ho." 

One  season  gives  us  fairy  plants, 

The  best  of  all — sweet  peas  ! 
The  other  ugly  foreign  bulbs, 

Reminding  of  disease. 
Give  back  to  me  the  summer  days 

When  fairies  charm  us  so, 
And  back  into  their  filthy  dens 

Let  Chinese  lilies  go. 

Then  there  is  a  beautiful  little  poem  addressed  to 
Mr.  Ralph  H.  Shaw,  the  well  known  Lowell,  Mass., 
poet,  that  is  worthy  of  being  quoted  Mr.  Collins 
says  that  it  was  written  on  reading  Mr.  Shaw's  poem, 
"My  Lady  Birch." 


HON.  ClIAS.  //.  COLLINS. 


83 


TO  RALPH   H.   SHAW. 

The  white  garbed  Queen  of  wood  and  wild, 

The  sentinel  of  the  streams, 
My  Lady  Birch  glows  in  your  verse, 

The  goddess  of  your  dreams. 

As  fair,  as  chaste,  as  beautiful, 

As  pulseless  calm  and  still, 
As  Greecian  statue's  marble  form, 

Made  warm  at  artists'  will. 

The  new  Pygmalion  of  the  wood 

Hath  found  another  charm, 
A  new  Diana  minus  dogs, 

To  work  an  Acteon  harm. 

The  Maple  of  Ohio  hills, 

In  all  its  Autumn  glory, 
Must  bow  its  crest  of  red  and  gold. 

Before  thy  tuneful  story. 

My  Lady  Birch  of  Northern  clime. 

Give  praise  for  such  a  lover, 
Who  first  has  sung  thy  purity, 

None  else  could  e'er  discover. 


But  dullest  soul  through  poet's  eye, 

With  quickened  pulse  now  see 
A  dainty  maid  in  robe  of  white, 

A  Lady  !  not  a  Tree ! 

Did  space  permit,  would  like  to  introduce  many 
other  quotations  from  Mr.  Collins'  poems  just  to 
prove  that  he  is  a  favorite  with  the  muses.     But  it  is 


84 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


hardly  necessary  to  do  so.  The  quotations  already 
made,  while  possibly  not  the  best  in  his  book,  are 
sufficient  to  show  that  he  is  a  poet  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word.  He  loves  poetry  and  literature  of  all 
kinds,  and  has  hosts  of  literary  friends.  And  this 
reminds  me  of  a  little  poem,  by  Dr.  Benjamin  F. 
Leggett  that  I  came  a  across  tbc  other  day  in  one 
the  Hillsboro  papers.  The  poem  was  introduced  to 
the  readers  of  the  paper  in  question,  with  the  fol- 
lowing kind  remarks  : 

"Prof.  B.  F.  Leggett,  Ph.  D.,  of  Ward,  Penn., 
has  written  the  following  poem,  addressed  to  a 
townsman,  which  we  take  pleasure  in  publishing  as 
a  tribute,  net  only  to  a  citizen,  but  to  our  county, 
for  which  we  thank  the  eminent  author,  who  has 
written  .so  many  beautiful  lyrics  and  sonnets  .  " 

TO  HON.  C.  H.  COLLINS. 


My  cares,  O  friend,  I  lay  aside, 

I  turn  your  pages  o'er ; 
Wit^  you  I  wander  far  and  wide 

By  many  an  alien  shore  : 
O'er  hill  and  plain  and  mountain  land, 

Through  realms  of  old  romance. 
By  blue  lakes  rimmed  with  shells  and  sand, 

By  vineyard  slopes  of  France. 


fe' 


In  English  meadows  sweet  and  fair, 
Where  hawthorn  hedges  rear 

Their  beauty  in  the  morning  air 
Thy  lark's  sweet  song  we  hear ! 


1 . 

1 


HON.  CHAS.  H.  COLLINS. 


SS 


•e 
>e 
11 

is 

^_ 

e 
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Above  your  page,  beyond  my  trees, 

In  cloudy,  wind-swung  piles, 
I  see  the  foam  of  sundown  seas. 

The  crags  of  surf-beat  isles. 

And  far  across  the  valley  wide 

A  deepening  glory  fills, 
Beyond  the  crimson,  sunset  tide, 

I  see  your  Highland  Hills  ; 
And  while  beside  my  wood-fire  here 

With  you  so  far  I  roam. 
Accept  my  honest  words  of  cheer — 

God  bless  your  health  and  home. 

This  is  certainly  a  sweet  little  lyrical  gem,  and,  no 
doubt,  Mr.  Collins  treasures  it  greatly.  I  presume 
it  was  sent  as  a  return  compliment  to  Mr.  Collins  for 
som(  verses  recently  addressed  to  Dr.  Leggett. 
These  verses  I  have  hunted  up  and  present  them 
herewith,  as  they  glow  with  kindly  feelings  and 
manly  praise  for  one  who  is  well  deserving  of  all 
that  is  said  in  his  favor: 

TO    BENJ.    F.    LEGGETT,    PH.,  D.,    OF    WARD,   PENN- 
SYLVANIA. 

On  receiving  his  two  volumes,  "A  Sheaf  of  Song,"  and  "An 
Idyl  of  Lake  George,  and  Other  Poems." 

•*  Speed  Malice  speed — the  dun  deer's  hide 
On  fleeter  feet  was  never  tide !" 

I  have  thanks  for  Pastor  Felix,  * 

The  scholar,  poet,  man. 
That  unto  thee,  in  winter  drear. 

His  trusty  Malise  ran. 

*Rev.  Arthur  John  Lockhart. 


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^  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Not  Malise  bearing  fiery  cross, 
With  sandals  of  the  dun  deer's  hide, 

And  messages  from  Roderick  Dhu, 
Menacing  all  the  border  side. 

But  from  Penobscot's  frozen  shores, 

And  ice-lock'd  currents  flow, 
Came  the  graceful  call  of  Felix 

To  the  southern  land  below ; 
From  beside  this  wintry  river 

Unto  Pennsylvania  rills, 
Came  the  bugle  call,  Oh,  I^eggett ! 

To  greet  Ohio  Hills ! 

Thou  hast  answered  to  the  wizzard 

On  the  pine  clad  slopes  of  Main — 
Sent  Idyls  of  the  Horicon, 

Sheafs  of  music  from  the  plain, 
With  pure  and  perfect  sonnets. 

And  pastoral  verses  sweet, 
Tales  of  woods  and  dreamy  forests 

Where  the  gentle  spirits  meet. 

I  have  read  them  all  with  pleasure, 

But  most  the  legends  old 
Of  warfare  by  the  Horicon, 

In  voiceful  verses  told. 
So  thus  in  Pennsylvania 

Lives  a  Monarch  true  indeed ; 
Not  with  gilded  crown  and  sceptre. 

But  of  Nature  and  its  creed. 

Among  Mr.  Collins*  other  valuable  literary  friends 
is  the  Rev.  Arthur  John  Lockhart,  one  of  the  best, 
if,  indeed,  not  the  very  best — of  the  Maine  poets  of 


HON.  CHAS.  H.  COLLINS. 


87 


to-day,  and  one  whose  writings  adorn  the  pages  of 
the  present  volume.  And  in  conclusion  I  need 
scarcely  assure  my  readers  that  the  friendship  which 
I  formed  with  Mr.  Collins  some  years  ago  has  grown 
warmer  and  closer  day  by  day.  I  respect  him  for 
his  many  sterling  qualities,  his  Christian  character, 
his  goodness  of  heart,  his  literary  talents,  his  good 
judgement  in  all  things.  For  these  and  various 
other  reasons  I  am  indeed  proud  to  be  able  to 
address  him  as  my  friend. 


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PETER  ROSS,  LL.  D. 


Dr.  Ross  is  a  native  of  Inverness,  Scotland,  hav- 
ing been  born  there  on  the  nth  of  January  1847. 
He  received  a  good  average  education  and  at  the 
age  of  fourteen  became  apprenticed  to  Miles  Mac- 
phail,  the  once  famous  Established  Church  publisher 
in  Edinburgh.  Here  he  met  and  conversed  with 
many  of  the  most  brilliant  literary  minds  in  Scotland 
at  the  time,  including  Russell,  the  great  editor  of 
The  Scotsman ;  Manson  of  The  Daily  Review ; 
Phineas  Deseret,  J.  W.  Ebsworth,  Dr.  Robert  Lee, 
Dr.  Bonar,  of  the  Canongate;  Dean  Ramsay,  Dr. 
Cook,  of  Haddington;  Cosmo  Innes,  J.  Hill  Burton, 
the  historian ;  Dr.  McLauchlan,  of  St.  Columbia's ; 
Maclagan,  the  poet;  Sir  James  Y.  Simpson,  and 
many  others.  In  1873  he  sailed  for  America  and 
since  that  time  has  resided  in  New  York  City,  en- 
gaged, mainly,  in  newspaper  and  other  literary 
work. 

A  literary  man  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  term. 
Dr.  Ross  has  given  to  the  world  a  number  of  works 
of  a  decidedly  valuable  character,  prominent  among 
them  being:  "The  Scot  in  America,"  "Kingcraft  in 
Scotland,"  "The  Literature  of  the  Scottish  Refor- 
mation,"  "  Scotland  and  the  Scots,"  "  Robert  Burns 
from  a  Literary  Standpoint,"  "Life  of  Saint  An- 


i 


PI<:THR   ROSS,   LL.   D. 

rUDM    A    liuoNzi:    Mi;i)Ai,i.i().\    liisr 
\i\   ciiAui  i:s  c  \i.\!  ui,i:n  .   .\.    \. 


u 


^ 


PETER  ROSS,  LL.  D. 


89 


drew,"  "The  Book  of  Scotia  Lodge,"  ** The  Songs 
of  Scotland,  Chronologically  Arranged,"  and  the 
* '  Life  and  Works  of  Sir  William  Alexander,  Earl 
of  Stirling." 

In  appreciation  of  his  work  in  connection  with 
Scottish  literature  in  the  United  States,  an  American 
college  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  year  con- 
ferred upon  him  the  degree  of  LL.  D.,  an  honor 
of  which  he  is  justly  proud. 

Although  making  no  claim  to  the  title  of  poet,  Dr. 
Ross  is  the  author  of  many  verses  that  evince  con- 
siderable poetic  ability.  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
reading  the  most  of  them  and  I  feel  sure,  from  the 
specimens  here  given  that  my  readers  will  agree  with 
me  in  saying  that  he  is  fairly  entitled  to  a  position 
among  our  Scottish-American  poets. 

For  a  more  extended  notice  of  Dr.  Ross  and  his 
writings,  see  '*  Random  Sketches  on  Scottish  Sub- 
jects,"— Paisley,  Alexander  Gardner,  1896. 

TWA  SCOTS. 

Twa  youthfu'  Scots  came  ower  the  sea 

Frae  where  the  Spey  firsts  meets  the  ocean, 

To  try  and  win  Dame  Fortune's  smiles 
In  rustic  toil  or  trade's  commotion. 


They  loved  their  hame,  its  hills  and  dales, 
Wi'  grand  historic  lore  attendant, 

But  lack  o'  gear  gaed  little  hope 
That  bindin',  they'd  be  independent. 


90 


A  CLUSIHK  OF  WE'JX 


By  wild  Lake  Kri»»'s  ruj^j^ed  shore 
They  settled,  and  wi'  sturdy  toil 

They  clear'd  n  farm  frae  brush  and  root, 
Ami  glean'd  gear  frae  the  virgin  soil. 

And  twa  miles  south  there  lay  a  toun 
Where  centred  a'  the  country's  treasure  ; 

And  soon  in  it  they  had  some  trade, 
Their  craps  to  sell,  their  corn  to  measure. 

Their  lassies  syne  frae  Scotland  cam*. 
And  settled  doun  in  comfort  wi*  them, 

And  weel-stocked  houses  crown 'd  the  farm 
And  couthy  bairns  were  born  to  them. 

As  years  roll'd  on  their  interests  lay 
Alike  at  stake  in  farm  an*  toun  ; 

And  wealth  cam'  flowin'  in  apace 
And  blythesome  ilka  day  wore  roun'. 


Ane  owned  a  railroad,  ane  a  mine, 
Ane  had  a  mill  and  ane  a  quarry, 

And  as  tlieir  hands  grew  fu',  their  bairns 
Took  part  and  hain'd  them  frae  the  worry. 

Ane  built  a  kirk,  and  fee'd  it  fair ; 

Ane  built  the  puir,  the  sick,  the  lame 
A  snug  and  bieu'  like  restin'  place. 

And  caird  it  a  Saint  Andrew's  Hame. 


And  to  the  puir  at  hame,  some  wealth 
They  freely  spent  baith  spring  and  simmer, 

And  mony  a  frail  man  blessed  their  names. 
And  for  their  peace  pray'd  mony  a  kimmer. 


PETEN  A'OMS,  A/,.  /). 


9/ 


Sac  jmisscmI  their  lives  content  and  pure, 
Aye  winni?'  love  through  hein'  kindly, 

Anil  helpin'  ilhers  up  the  brae 
They  uucc  had  clainb  Hae  sair  and  blindly. 

And  when  at  last  their  time  did  come, 
And  baith  to  their  lang  hame  were  carried, 

The  neif^hbours  a'  for  mony  miles 

Foregathered  roun'  where  they  were  buried. 

And  o'er  their  graves  is  ae  braid  stane 

Which  laps  their  clay  frae  weet  and  wind  ; 

And  at  the  foot  are  carved  these  lines, 
'Neath  where  their  nantes  are  intertwined  : 

'•  God  rest  them  !     Now  their  work  is  o'er  ; 

On  their  fair  fame  there's  ne'er  a  blot. 
They  acted  well  their  several  parts 

And  loved  to  help  a  brither  Scot. 

"  For  this  was  aye  their  hamely  creed — 
Ilk  Scotsman  is  a  Scotsman's  brither  ; — 

And  whiles  wi'  glee  they  sung  a  sang, 
Some  auld  stave  learned  on  hills  o'  heather. 

*'  They  did  whate'er  they  thought  was  right, 
And  shared  alike  earth's  glee  and  sorrow  ; 

And  when  life's  work  was  done  and  past, 
They  won  the  peace  which  comes — to-morrow." 

THE  CURLER'S  MOTTO. 


I  min'  when  a  lad,  just  beginning  to  wan' net 
Thro'  life's  weary  troubles,  tho'  feckless  an*  wee, 

My  faither's  advice,  he  was  king  among  curlers, 
Was  '•  Aye  to  be  sure  an'  play  straight  to  the  tee." 


92 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


On'  sae  be  our  motto 

In  frost  or  in  shower, 
By  sunlicht  or  munelicht 

In  garden  or  bower ; 
What  e'er  may  befa'  us 

By  land  or  by  sea, 
Its  best  aye  to  play  a  straight  shot  to  the  tee. 

For  after  he  tell't  me  that  a'  men  were  brithers. 
An*  the  noblest  was  he  wha  for  truth  ill  could  dree, 

An'  he  was  the  sturdiest  man  to  depend  on 
Wha  aye  tried  his  best  to  play  straight  to  the  tee. 
An'  sae  be  our  motto,  etc. 

An'  a'  throughout  life's  dreary  journey  I've  fand  it, 
In  wealth  or  in  puirtith,  whare'er  I  micht  be 

In  palace  or  garret  the  happiest  man  is 
He  wha  aye  strives  to  play  straight  to  the  tee. 
An'  sae  be  our  motto,  etc. 

SONNET. 

AFTER  READING   "  DEMOCRITUS  JUNIOR." 

Melancholy  thy  charms  have  won  the  love 

Of  poets,  sages,  and  each  thoughtful  mind, 

Sent  to  this  lower  sphere  from  that  above 

To  sound  humanity  to  all  mankind. 

Milton  to  thee  hath  tuned  a  noble  lay; 

Doth  not  sweet  Shakespeare's  sonnet  show  thy  power, 

And  Dante's  every  line  thy  love  betray 

And  Byron  call  thee  mistress  every  hour  ? 

For  who  can  see  men's  struggles  in  this  life. 

Their  empty  smiles  and  recklessness  of  sin  ; 

Their  carelessness  who  stumble  in  the  strife. 

If  only  fortune's  wheel  can  make  them  win — 

Who  sees,  helps  thinking  on  thy  pensive  charms. 

And  bends  the  knee,  and  shields  him  in  thy  arms. 


PETER  ROSS,  LL.  D. 


93 


THE  INCH  O'   PERTH. 

Its  bonnie  on  the  Juch  o'  Perth, 

In  summer  when  the  flowers  are  growin', 
Ye  winna'  fin'  through  a'  the  earth 

A  spot  wi'  nature's  gifts  mair  rowin'  ! 
The  Tay  flows  grandly  to  the  sea, 

An'  Kinnoul  tap's  maist  to  the  carie, 
Rut  the  sweetest  sight  of  a'  to  me. 

Is  jist  a  blink  o'  my  ain  Mary. 

Some  poets'  male'  a  wond'rous  wark, 

'Bout  nature's  feats  in  trees  an'  grasses, 
'Bout  suns  an'  skies  an'  midnights  dark — 

There's  nought  to  me  like  nature's  lassies, 
I  hate  the  gaudy  city  dame, 

For  suns  an'  skies  an'  trees,  I  carena', 
I  want  a  hoose  to  ca'  my  ain, 

An'  want  a  kiss  frae  my  ain  Mary. 

O,  Mary  'twas  a  bonny  night, 

When  last  we  o'er  the  Inch  went  roamin', 
The  moon  shone  clear  her  silv'ry  light, 

The  Tay  below  went  softly  moanin' ; 
An'  then  we  plighted  sure  our  love, 

Wi'  vows  that  time  can  never  vary. 
For  while  life's  gien  me  frae  above, 

I'll  bless  the  day  I  won  my  Mary. 


TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

Oh  !  beautiful  the  lark,  when  on  the  summer  mom, 
She  rises  gaily  from  the  earth's  cold  breast, 

And  welcomes  back  the  sun  to  sky  forlorn, 
And  calls  the  sluggish  ploughboy  from  his  rest. 

Oh  !  sweet  the  song  that's  carolled  forth  so  free, 
And  cheers  the  milkmaid  as  she  ventures  out. 


94 


A  CLUSTER  OF  PORTS. 


To  meet  her  love  perchance  upon  the  lea, 
And  hear  his  vows  with  much  beseeming  doubt. 

And  as  the  blythesome  bird  pursues  its  way, 
How  sweet  the  chirping  from  each  hedge  and  tree. 

Answering  back  its  loud  triumphant  lay. 
Bidding  the  sleeping  world  awake  and  be. 


THE  OLD   PAUPiCR. 


m 


Sitting  by  the  hall  fire,  when  the  workhouse  day  is  done, 
When  the  weary  toil  is  ended  and  the  resting  has  begun  ; 
Sitting,  quietly  thinking,  ere  the  bell  is  rung  for  bed. 
And  on  the  hard  low  pillow  lies  at  rest  the  weary  head — 
Thinking  on  the  long  past  follies,  the  joy  the  opening  gave — 
How  dismal-like  the  present,  and  to  come,  the  pauper's  grave. 

Spurned  by  his  old  companions,  here  his  days  will  end  at  last, 
As  a  leaf  by  tempest  dismal  f  om  the  autumn  tree  is  cast. 

No  one  knows  that  aged  pauper,  tho'  once  a  day  't  has  been. 
When  loves  and  friends  and  plenty  were  ever  round  him  seen  ; 
When  his  evil  deeds  were  gilded  o'er,  his  virtues  loudly  sung. 
And  to  sounds  of  mirth  and  laughter,  his  rafters  nightly  rung. 
But,  well-a-day,  misfortunes  came,  and  friends  and  virtues  fled, 
And  the  sneering  laugh,  or  bitter  curse,  were  heaped  upon  his 
head. 

The  years  passed  on,  until  the  depth  of  misery  he  won — 
Hoarding  with  the  scum  that  never  can  abide  the  glaring  sun, 
Now  carousing  with  the  guilty  from  the  fruits  of  guilty  dare. 
Singing  gaily  in  the  evening,  "  let  us  hang  that  spectre  care." 
Then  for  weeks  and  weeks  together,   wond'ring  where  to  win 

a  meal, 
Praying  bitterly  for  death  to  come,  his  wretchedness  to  heal. 


PETER  ROSS,  LL,  D. 


95 


Here,  old  and  frail,  and  mind  near  gone,  he  totters  to  the  grave, 
By  all  regarded  as  a  load,  by  many  deemed  an  knave  ; 
Yet  see  him  sitting  quietly,  gazing  deep  into  the  fire, 
And  muttering  his  memories,  his  mumbling  lips  ne'er  tire. 

"  That  Christmas  eve  was  merrily  spent, 

When  Willie,  my  son,  was  bom  ; 
And  the  old  hall's  oaken  roof  near  rent, 
As  we  caroused  fro ir  »iight  to  morn. 

But  I  never  see  nc  • 

Of  the  eyes  that  shone, 

With  hope  a'v    love  '^o  brip^  \. 

And  I'll  never  know  mi-  Ih, 

For  while  on  this  e.-rth, 

Ivifc  to  me's  but  a  lismal  night. 

Oh  !  the  wealth  and  grace  at  the  county  ball, 

When,  young  and  thoughtless  and  gay, 
I  headed  the  dance,  and  lorded  o'er  all. 
And  the  fairest  would  ne'er  whisper  nay. 

Now  many  are  dead, 

And  many  have  fled. 

For  shame,  beyond  the  sea. 

And  some  are  undone, 

In  the  race  all  run, 

And  now  are  forgotten — like  me. 

There  \eas  Helen,  my  high-born  lovely  wife, 

The  pride  of  hamlet  and  hall. 
She  was  fair  and  good,  and  they  said  my  life, 
With  her  would  be  heavenly  thrall. 

And  she  loved  me  well, 

Till  she  knew  the  tale 

Of  my  ruin  and  poverty. 

Then  she  sulked  and  raved, 

And  in  curses  laved, 

And  parted  forever  from  me. 


111 


If"!: 

mi 


m 


J;  >.: 
W 


96 


i  I 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Next  Willie,  my  boy,  for  a  soldier  went, 

Far,  far,  beyond  the  sea. 
Where  the  Indian  sky  his  spirit  rent. 
For  he  never  returned  to  me. 

Yet  I  think  I  know, 

He's  oft  here  below. 

And  smilingly  cheers  me  on. 

So  I  fancy  he  means. 

To  take  me  to  scenes, 

Of  peace,  when  my  journey  is  done. 

Oh  harshly  sounds  the  master's  voice. 

And  weary  the  rest  as  the  toil ; 
And  sad  to  me  is  the  bitter  choice, 
Of  dressing  the  hemp,  or  the  soil. 

And  the  parson  talks. 

Of  Heaven,  and  mocks, 

The  Holy  Book  in  his  telling ; 

For  if  o'er  the  earth, 

He'd  lighten  our  path, 

Faith  in  our  hearts  would  be  dwelling. 

But  often  when  all  around  is  quiet. 

And  midnight  the  tower  is  ringing, 
I  hear  far  away  in  the  gloom  of  the  night — 
A  chorus  of  voices  singing. 

And  as  they  come  near, 

I  think  I  can  hear, 

My  Willie's  voice  saying  lowly, 

**  Come  father,  come. 

Your  journey  is  done, 

There  is  rest  in  the  realm  of  glory." 


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OIvORGlC  WIU^IAMSON. 


GEORGE  WHLIAMSON. 


I  recently  added  to  my  literary  treasures  a  cluster 
of  beautiful  poems,  artistically  tied  tojjcther,  under 
the  title  of  **  Gleaning-s  of  Leisure  Hours"  (Detroit 
International  Publishing  Company),  from  which  I 
derived  considerable  intellectual  pleasure.  These 
"Gleanings"  are  from  the  writings  of  Mr.  George 
Williamson,  of  Detroit,  Mich.,  a  poet  of  sterling 
merit  and  a  man  of  much  intelligence.  His  poetry 
is  distinguished  by  beauty  and  strength,  originality 
and  affection,  and  no  one  can  rise  from  a  reading  of 
it  without  feeling  better  for  the  sweet  and  pure 
thoughts,  the  bright  similes,  the  pathetic  ardor  and 
the  Christian  love  and  brotherly  kindness  which  is 
visible  all  through  it.  Open  his  book  at  random  and 
you  will  be  sure  to  alight  upon  something  that  will 
both  please  and  instruct.  Among  the  first  of  the 
pieces  that  attracted  my  attention  was  "Good  and 
Great, "  a  well  written  and  carefully  constructed  poem, 
and  one  which  immediately  conveys  the  impression 
that  its  author  possesses  considerably  more  than 
ordinary  poetic  ability. 

GOOD   AND  GREAT. 

The  hero  of  a  hundred  fights, 

With  decorations  on  his  breast, 
Has  reached  ambition's  tottering  heights, 

And  can  on  well  earned  laurels  rest. 


^Bi 


9.9 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


But  mark,  he  is  not  yet  content, 
Uuconquered  foes  his  thoughts  create, 

As  conscience  cries,  "Repent,  repent, 
'Tis  better  to  be  good  than  great." 


'\    • 


Philosophers  may  all  be  wise 

In  nature's  scientific  skill, 
Astronomers  may  search  the  skies 

And  measure  distances  at  will ; 
But  there  is  something  dearer  far 

That  love  alone  can  demonstrate. 
This  light  that  shines  from  Bethlehem's  star- 

' Tis  better  to  be  good  than  great. 

The  earth  with  all  its  fulness  may 

The  transient  wants  of  those  supply. 
Whose  hope's  possession  for  to-day 

Of  fame  or  pleasure  gold  can  buy  ; 
But  temporal  joy  can  never  save 

The  soul  from  sin's  degrading  state  ; 
For  all  who  look  beyond  the  grave, 

'Tis  better  to  be  good  than  great. 

There  is  in  every  heart  a  void 

That  worldly  honors  cannot  fill. 
An  incompleteness  oft  allied 

To  many  forms  of  vice  and  ill ; 
We  may  be  great  when  far  from  good. 

But  from  pure  wisdom's  estimate 
That  has  the  test  of  ages  stood, 

The  truly  good  are  always  great. 

Oh,  for  the  peace  that  Burns  could  trace, 
So  vivid  in  the  "  Cotter's  night." 

The  simple  faith,  the  holy  grace. 
The  firm  resolve  to  walk  upright  ; 


iL«Er£;-^ 


GEORGE    WILLIAMSON. 


99 


Then  come  what  may,  though  fortune  frown, 

It  cannot  mar  our  happy  fate, 
To  gain  a  pure,  immortal  crown. 

Be  good,  and,  on  that  Rock,  be  great. 

Other  poems  of  a  similar  character  to  this  are 
strewn  throughout  the  book  in  great  profusion, 
*' Contentment,"  *' Doubt  and  Hope,"  "Sing  at 
Work,"  "Footsteps  at  the  Dooor,"  "The  Fading 
Year,"  "Indifference,"  "Help  the  Poor,"  "Forget 
the  Past,"  besides  the  various  "In  Memoriam," 
pieces,  being  particularly  fine.  Many  of  these  poems 
contain  deep  philosophical  reasoning,  others  look 
beyond  the  present  and  inspire  us  with  noble  hopes 
for  the  future,  while  still  others  teach  us  to  be  con- 
tent with  our  e very-day  surroundings  and  show  us 
that  we  all  enjoy  numerous  blessings  in  life,  even  if 
we  are  not  altogether  aware  of  them. 

Mr.  Williamson  is  a  native  of  Lockerbie,  Dum- 
friesshire, Scotland,  where  he  was  born  on  May  28, 
1836.  He  was  educated  at  Birkenhead  and  Man- 
chester, Eng. ,  and  received  what  may  be  termed  a 
good  common  school  education.  On  completing  his 
studies  he  seems  to  have  traveled  a  great  deal,  as  in 
the  year  1855  we  find  him  first  in  America,  then 
again  in  England  and  next  in  South  Africa.  He  re- 
turned to  Scotland  and  located  in  Dumfries  in  the 
spring  of  1856.  In  the  fall  of  1857  he  went  to  Trin- 
idad, West  Indies,  as  overseer  of  a  sugar  plantation, 
and  here  he  remained  until  i860.  We  next  hear  of 
him  in  the  vicinity  of  Toronto,  Ont. ,  where  he  fol- 


too 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


lowed  the  business  of  architect  and  builder,  then  in 
the  oil  district  of  Ontario  until  1867,  when  he  re- 
moved to  Kentiicky  and  became  superintendent  of 
construction  for  the  Red  River  Iron  Manufacturing 
Co.  A  few  years  later  his  two  younger  brothers, 
whom  he  had  brought  out  from  Scotland,  founded 
the  firm  of  Williamson  &  Brother,  lumber  merchants, 
Lexington,  Ky. ,  and  at  intervals  we  find  him  with 
them  helping  to  build  up  and  extend  what  has  since 
become  one  of  the  largest  businesses  of  its  kind  in 
the  State.  During  all  these  years,  however,  he 
never  abandoned  his  muse  or  allowed  her  to  remain 
silent.  Poems  on  various  subjects,  all  showing  the 
touch  of  a  master  hand,  continued  to  flow  from  his 
facile  pen  and  were  welcomed  by  his  friends  as  soon 
as  they  made  their  appearance. 

On  leaving  Scotland  he  presented  her  people  with 
a  testimonial  of  his  love  for  the  dear  old  land  in  the 
form  of  a  short  poem,  entitled  "Scotia's  Shore." 
This  is  as  good  a  poem  as  has  ever  been  written  on 
the  subject.  There  is  patriotism,  feeling  and  sorrow 
all  mingling  together,  and  it  has  the  merit  of  being 
brief  and  to  the  point,  characteristics  which  poems 
of  this  kind  do  not  always  possess. 

SCOTIA'S  SHORE, 

Farewell,  though  leaving  Scotia's  shore    * 

My  thoughts  with  you  remain. 
While  absent  I  shall  love,  and  more 

Wben  next  we  meet  again. 


GEORGE    WILLIAMSON. 


tot 


Each  wave  that  heaves  the  vessel  high, 
Kach  breeze  that  skims  the  sea, 

Shall  fill  my  breast  with  many  a  sigh 
For  Scotland  and  for  thee. 

Farewell !    I  go  where  gems  abide, 

Where  gold's  without  alloy, 
Where  beams  the  sun  in  all  his  pride 

And  every  scene  is  joy  ; 
But  not  the  gorgeous  glittering  strand, 

Nor  all  the  wealth  I  see, 
Nor  all  the  beauty  of  the  land 

Can  win  my  love  from  thee  ! 

Farewell,  how  solemn  is  that  word, 

How  often  feared  and  spoke. 
While  ears,  with  pain  expectant  heard. 

And  hearts  have  well  nigh  broke. 
But  hope  our  parting  thoughts  shall  cheer 

That  thou  shalt  faithful  be. 
And  love  that  banishes  all  fear 

Shall  make  me  true  to  thee. 


How  different  to  this,  and  yet  how  beautiful  and 
melodious «,re  Mr.  Williamson's  "Farewell  Lines  on 
Leaving  Spain."  Truly  no  one  can  read  them  and 
not  acknowledge  that  this  author  is  a  sweet  and  in- 
spired singer.  Every  line  of  the  poem  is  smooth 
and  soft  and  harmonious,  while  the  sentiments  ex- 
pressed in  it  readily  find  a  responsive  chord  in  our 
hearts  and  for  the  moment  we  almost  wish  ourselves 
at  the  poet's  side,  so  that  we  can  join  him  in  his  fare- 
well hymn. 


I02 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


It 


LEAVING  SPAIN. 


Gentle  twilight,  softly  linger, 
Let  me  on  her  beauty  gaze, 

Till  my  heart  joins  with  the  singer 
One  short  parting  hymn  of  praise  ; 

Till  reflectively  I  listen 
To  the  pure  Castilian  strain, 

Watch  the  bright  eyes  brighter  glisten 
As  sweet  music's  low  refrain 
Wafts  a  fond  farewell  to  Spain. 


Land  enchantingly  uniting 

All  the  charms  of  earth  and  sky. 
Ever  pleasantly  delighting 

Poet's  mind  and  painter's  eye  ; 
Rich  as  wine  thy  vineyard's  growing 

Streams  the  warm  blood  through  each  vein, 
Friendship's  fountain  freely  flowing 

In  thy  zeal  to  entertain  : 

Hospitable,  generous  Spain. 

Maids  the  heart's  best  retrospection, 

Men  of  honor,  faithful,  true. 
Sunny  home  of  sweet  affection, 

Though  we  bid  thee  now  adieu. 
Gems  of  thought,  earth's  richest  treasure, 

Monarchs  of  the  soul  shall  reign, 
As  love's  harp  recalls  the  pleasure 

Dearest  memories  retain 

Of  thy  blessings,  favored  Spain. 

Patriotism  foniis  a  conspicuous  feature  of  many  of 
Mr.  Williamson's  productions.  "To  Mme.  Sadi 
Carnot,"  "The  Thistle  and  the  Rose,"  "Canada," 


GEORGE    WILLIAMSON. 


to3 


and  his  various  societury  poems  being  all  more  or 
less  worthy  in  this  respect.  There  is  also  a  poem  in 
his  volume  addressed  to  "General  Russell  A.  Alger," 
which  deserves  more  than  a  mere  passing  reference 
to  its  name.  In  language,  spirit  and  expression  it  is 
as  noble  a  poem  as  is  the  character  of  the  general  to 
whom  it  is  addressed,  and  we  take  pleasure  in 
appending  it  herewith : 

GENERAL  RUSSELL  A.   ALGER. 

Alger  the  general,  noble  and  brave, 
Foremost  in  fight  when  the  battle  flags  wave. 

Fast  by  his  comrade's  side 

Bravely  he  would  have  died 
Out  in  the  field  his  loved  country  to  save. 

Alger,  the  Governor,  upright,  sedate. 
Statesman  and  orator,  humble  though  great. 

Seeking  to  suit  the  hour 

Aid  from  a  higher  pewer 
True  to  his  Maker,  and  true  to  his  State. 


Alger  the  lumberman,  active  in  trade. 
Faithful  and  honest,  a  millionaire  made, 
Himself  a  toiler  then 
Would  have  for  workingmen 
Value  for  labor  that  ought  to  be  paid. 

Alger  the  bountiful,  friend  of  the  poor, 
List  to  his  words  that  should  ever  endure, 

"The  greatest  good  we  find 

Is  to  relive  mankind." 
Oh,  what  great  good  for  himself  is  secure, 


f 


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nil 


I  I 


I  ii 


/04 


A  CLLSTER  OF  POETS. 


Alger  the  mcdel,  whose  excellent  worth, 
Causeth  the  nation  to  honor  his  birth, 

And  make  his  name  be  heard 

As  a  dear  household  word 
Filling  the  highest  position  on  earth. 

Many  poems  of  a  highly  humorous  character 
appeared  at  intervals  over  our  author's  signature, 
and  are  now  included  in  his  book.  In  these  pieces 
his  humor  is  natural  and  unrestrained  and  they  evince 
the  fact  that  Mr.  Williamson  has  none  of  the  pessi- 
mist in  his  nature.  He  seems  to  have  passed  through 
various  trials  and  troubles  at  times,  but  he  has  con- 
tinued to  look  on  the  bright  side  of  life,  and  has 
always  found  some  good  in  everything.  His  poems 
on  love,  home  and  the  affections  are  also  deserving 
of  special  mention.  These  include  "Love's  Quar- 
rels," "Love,"  "Mother,"  "Friends  in  Old  Age," 
" Golden  Wedding  Day,"  "The  Ladder  of  Love," 
and  many  others,  all  containing  loving  thoughts, 
kindly  expressions  affectionate,  graceful  and  appro- 
priate, compliments.  In  addition  to  this  they  are 
exquisitely  finished  and  may  be  classed  as  among  the 
best  of  our  talented  author's  work. 

Nor  must  we  omit  to  mention  the  many  excellent 
poems  on  Nature  and  the  beauties  of  nature  which 
are  scattered  throughout  Mr.  Williamson's  book. 
Some  of  them,  indeed,  are  beautiful  word  pictures 
and  as  suc!i  they  will  always  be  treasured  by  those 
who  come  in  contact  with  them.  Such,  for  instance, 
as  "To  a  Rosebud,"  "The  Approach  of   Spring," 


GEORGE    WILLIAMSON. 


'05 


"The  Lilacs,"  "The  Flowers  in  Winter  Are  Best," 
"June,"  **July,"  and  "  The  War  of  the  Seasons," 
are  exquisite  pieces  of  true  poesy  and  well  worthy 
of  being  included  in  any  volume  of  poems  on  nature. 
Nothing  harsh  or  unpoetical  is  to  be  found  in  any  of 
them.     Take  as  a  specimen  the  following : 

THE  WAR  OF  THE  SEASONS. 

An  army  came  from  the  tropics, 

In  battle's  proud  array, 
With  excessive  heat  and  passion 

The  enemy  to  slay. 

And,  beyond  the  arctic  region, 

Arose  in  powerful  might 
A  host  of  chilling  warriors 

As  eager  for  the  fight. 

The  Southern  army  is  passing 

The  equinoctial  line, 
And  the  North  is  fast  advancing 

To  frustrate  its  design. 

The  breath  of  the  fiery  furnace 

Is  met  with  frozen  hills, 
With  the  battle  fiercely  raging 

The  pulse  of  nature  thrills. 


And  louder  the  echoes  thunder 
Till  all  the  sleepers  'round 

Awake  with  heat  perspiring, 
Though  shivering  on  the  ground. 


il 


/o6 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


The  conflict  so  long  continued, 
And  gloom  so  widely  spread, 

That  a  flag  of  truce  is  flying 
To  carry  off  the  dead. 

And  the  monarchs  are  arranging 
To  have  the  combat  cease, 

Each  to  the  other  dictating 
The  only  terms  of  peace. 

The  Northern  king  has  a  daughter, 
The  Southern  king  a  son, 

And  hostilities  are  ended 
By  making  these  two  one. 


I   ) 


The  marriage  is  consummated 

With  presents  from  each  king. 
And  where  this  pair  is  located, 

The  country  is  called  Spring. 

Did  space  permit  I  would  like  to  introduce  quota- 
tions from  some  of  Mr.  Williamson's  longer  poems 
as  they  are  well  worthy  of  more  than  a  mere  passing 
reference  being  made  to  them. 

I  will  however  conclude  with  two  of  his  short 
pieces,  recently  composed  and  therefore  not  to  be 
found  in  his  book.  The  one  is  an  affectionate  tri- 
bute to  his  wife,  and  the  other  a  patriotic  lyric  in 
connection  with  his  native  land.  This  latter  piece 
has  been  set  to  stirring  music  by  Mr.  Walter  Bruce 
and  has  been  sung  by  him  with  great  success  in 
many  parts  of  America. 


..--^ ajiaww— M— 


GEORGE    WILLIAMSON. 


lOJ 


EVER  NEAR. 


Just  to  be  near  thee  when  thine  eyes 

Reveal  their  happiest  light, 
When  all  thy  charms,  like  glad  sunrise. 

Makes  dreariness  take  flight. 
Thy  presence  is  a  safe  retreat 

Of  comfort  and  of  cheer, 
The  balmy  air  is  made  more  sweet 

When  thou  art  near,  love, — near. 

Just  to  be  near  thee  when  a  shade 

Of  sorrow  clouds  thy  brow, 
To  feel  the  sanctity  of  aid 

Is  mine  to  tender  now  ; 
To  watch  thy  winter  change  to  spring 

And  smiles  again  appear, 
T'were  joy,  as  pure  as  angels  sing. 

Just  to  be  near  thee, — near. 

Just  to  be  near  thee  when  the  hour 

Of  death  shall  lay  thee  low. 
To  woo  thee  back  by  love's  great  power. 

Or  with  thee  cheerful  go. 
Or  if  I  first  shall  pass  the  goal 

That  brings  thy  silent  tear. 
No  terrors  can  affright  my  soul 

If  thou  art  near,  love, — near. 

Just  to  be  near  thee  ?  traitor  word. 

My  beautiful,  my  bride. 
Thy  form  is  seen,  thy  voice  is  heard 

Forever  by  my  side. 
In  peace  or  strife,  in  death  or  life, 

In  bliss,  in  pain,  or  fear, 
Where'er  thou  art,  thy  faithful  heart 

Is  near,  love, — ever  near. 


to8 


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1  . ' : 


! 


:ii 


'IS   ;!    I 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


SCOTLAND. 

A  new  sang  for  auhl  Scotland, 

The  garden  o'  the  loftiest  fame 
That  ever  thrilled  the  heart  o'  man, 

Or  nursed  him  to  a  laureled  name. 
Frae  proud,  defiant  craigs  her  bairns 

Hae  heritage  to  do  and  dare  : 
The  soul  of  truth  her  honoured  sons, 

And  sweet  as  love  her  daughters  fair. 

A  brave  sang  for  auld  Scotland, 

To  warm  the  patriot's  bluid  anew — 
To  list  again  the  pibroch's  strain 

An'  a'  the  gathering  clans  review. 
To  feel  the  "heather  is  on  fire," 

And  freedom's  sacred  watchward  learn. 
As  thoughts  o'  Wallace  nerved  the  arms 

That  fought  wi'  Bruce  at  Bannockburn. 

Wha  wadna  sing  for  Scotland  ? 

Nae  climate  blunts  oor  ardour  keen, 
Nor  melts  the  gowden  friendly  chain 

That  sprang  frae  links  made  on  the  green. 
Her  glens  an'  mountains,  banks  an'  braes, 

Maun  a'  be  level  as  the  sea. 
Her  rbaring  torrents  backward  flow. 

Ere  native  love  departs  frae  me. 

Oor  hearts  are  in  auld  Scotland, 

Wha's  heroes  bled  and  martyrs  died 
To  gain  religious  liberty 

An'  a'  that  bless  oor  ain  fireside. 
Far  ower  the  saut  seas  though  we  roam 

To  sunny  hames  'ueath  foreign  skies, 
The  Land  o'  Cakes  aboon  them  a' 

Is  aye  oor  warldly  paradise. 


KgWWyWfflWIDHi 


GEORGE    WILLIAMSON, 


tog 


Then  sing  o'  -iear  auld  Scotland, 

Whaur  thistles  guard  the  wee  blue  bell — 
Whaur  Kden's  bonniest  floral  gems 

In  a'  their  modest  beauty  dwell  ; 
Whaur  Knox,  and  Scott,  and  Burns  hae  left 

A  feast  o'  nourishment  divine. 
Earth  to  caress,  and  heaven  possess. 

By  Scotia's  deeds  o*  auld  lang  syne, 

Mr.  Robert  Matheson,  of  Chicago,  a  well-known 
poet  and  an  able  critic,  in  reviewing  "Gleanings  of 
Leisure  Hours,"  said: 

**  The  advent  of  a  new  singer,  if  his  notes  be  true 
and  tuneful,  should  be  hailed  with  joy  as  a  new  voice 
added  to  that  choir  which  no  man  can  number,  and 
such  I  find  in  George  Williamson.  He  is  of  the 
quiet,  domestic  order  of  poets,  possessing  an  almost 
exuberant  fancy,  a  facile  versification,  and  withal  a 
pawky  Scottish  wit  that  is  sure  to  please  the  average 
reader.  His  is  a  pure  castalian  rill  or  fountain  of 
Bandusia,  where  one  may  turn  for  a  cool  refreshing 
draught.  Our  poet  has  that  ease  in  versification 
which  can  arise  only  from  spontaneity,  singing  as 
freely  as  the  birds;  and  while  his  notes  flow  with  an 
easy  modulation  the  variety  of  his  meters  relieves 
his  verse  of  anything  like  monotony.  He  has 
evidently  a  keen  musical  sense,  which  enables  him 
to  melodize  in  perfect  harmony.  His  sentiments  are 
faultless,  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  volume  but 
what  is  kindly  ennobling  and  wise.  Faith  in  the 
Divine  Providence  and  an  ardent  love  for  his  fellow 
men,  form  a  diapason  vhich  rings  through  his  lines. 


no 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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to  use  his  own  words,  'as  some  clear  silvery  bell.' 
Like  Abraham  Lincoln,  he  gets  near  the  heart  of 
the  people,  and  is  the  poet  of  the  masses  rather  than 
of  the  classes.  He  is  easily  imderstood,  and  has  lit- 
tle in  common  with  mysticism  which  makes  such 
works  as  Browning's  so  difficult  for  the  ordinary 
mind  to  interpret.  The  poem  on  '  Good  and  Great ' 
aptly  illustrates  the  author's  philosophy  of  life : 

'  There  is  in  every  heart  a  void, 

That  wordly  honors  cannot  fill, 
An  incompleteness  oft  allied 

To  many  forms  of  vice  and  ill ; 
We  may  be  great  when  far  from  good, 

But  from  pure  wisdom's  estimate 
That  has  the  test  of  ages  stood, 

The  tnily  good  are  always  great.' 

Mr.  Williamson  is  a  native  of  Dumfriesshire,  Scot- 
land, a  region  redolent  of  song,  and  has  his  due 
share  of  that  ardent  patriotism  which  ever  dis- 
tinguishes the  natives  of  the  land  of  the  mountain 
and  the  flood.  He  has  traveled  extensively,  and 
filled  many  important  positions  as  architect,  master 
mechanic  and  builder.  He  has  always  taken  an 
active  interest  in  patriotic  and  fraternal  organiza- 
tions, has  been  president  of  several  societies,  and  for 
the  past  twelve  years  has  been  supreme  scnbe  of  the 
Order  of  Red  Cross,  which  office  he  now  holds. 

He  is  also  an  honorary  member  of  the  Highland 
Association  of  Illinois,  of  the  Scottish  Assembly  of 
Chicago,  a  member  of  St.  Andrew's  Society,  Detroit, 


GEORGE    WILLIAMSON. 


Ill 


and  a  member  of  Detroit  Lodge,  No.   6,    Ancient 
Order  of  United  Workmen. 

Mr.  Williamson  was  married  to  Miss  Agnes  Clark- 
son  in  Woodstock,  Ontario,  on  the  1 9th  of  September, 
1862.  She  is  an  admirable,  warm-hearted  woman, 
and  is  fully  conscious  of  and  appreciates  her  hus- 
band's talents.  Three  sons  and  three  daughters 
have  blessed  their  union.  In  addition  to  his  duties 
as  supreme  scribe,  he  is  also  editor  of  the  * '  Red 
Cross  Gazzette,"  a  monthly  journal  published  in  the 
interest  of  the  Red  Cross  Order.  His  "Gleanings 
of  Leisure  Hours  "  is  a  large  and  handsome  volume, 
and  a  welcome  addition  to  American  poetical  litera- 
ture. Its  contents  may  not  bring  him  a  laurel  wreath 
during  his  life  time,  but  as  a  prominent  writer  once 
remarked,  '  Something  resembling  poetry  is  some- 
times borne  into  instant  and  turbulent  popularity, 
while  a  work  of  genuine  character  may  be  lying  ne- 
glected by  all  except  the  poets.  But  the  tide  of  time 
flows  on,  and  the  former  begins  to  settle  to  the 
bottom,  while  the  latter  rises  slowly  and  steadily  to 
the  surface  and  goes  forward  for  a  spirit  is  in  it.'" 


11: 


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RALPH   H.   SHAW. 


"In  Many  Moods,  or  Miscellaneous  Poems,  by- 
Ralph  H.  Shaw,  *  For  the  fire-side  or  for  the  summer 
shade,'  Lowell,  Mass."  These  words  form  the  title 
page  of  a  unique  little  volume  which  has  been  a  pleas- 
ing and  entertaining  companion  to  me  during  a  few 
brief  holidays  spent  in  the  country.  Nor  do  I  marvel, 
now  that  I  have  laid  it  aside  for  a  time,  at  the  agree- 
able fascination  which  it  exercised  over  me.  Nature 
has  always  been  a  favorite  study  of  mine,  and  here 
I  found  an  abundance  of  poetry  laden  with  beautiful 
similes,  choice  expressions  and  bright  thoughts  on  a 
subject  which  immediately  touched  a  responsive 
chord  in  my  heart.  There  are  poems  on  **  The  Early 
Flowers,"  "Mosses,"  "April  Rains,"  "Summer 
Mornings,"  "May,"  "Autumn,"  "Wild  Flowers  of 
the  Holy  Land,"  "Cardinal  Flowers,"  and  various 
others  of  a  similar  character,  and  all  of  a  singularly 
sw^eet  and  tender  nature.  Indeed,  as  far  as  the  book 
is  concerned,  its  title  might  as  appropriately  have 
been  "Songs  of  Nature,"  as  anything  else,  for 
allusions  to  nature  in  one  form  or  another  are  scat- 
tered in  great  profusion  throughout  its  pages.  And 
the  language  is  soft  and  delicate  and  graceful  as  it 
should  always  be  in  pastoral  poetry,  the  style  simple 
and  unaffected,  the  sentiment  pure  and  exalted,  the 


RALPH  II.    SUA  IV. 


'f3 


rhyme  melodious  and  perfect,  while  a  deep  devotional 
spirit  hovers  over  all,  adding  its  chaste  and  refining 
influence  to  the  charms  of  as  promising  a  little  vol- 
ume of  poems  as  has  ever  been  issued  by  a  rising 
American  poet.  Listen  for  a  moment  to  the  open- 
ing poem : 


I  know  that  I  for  years  have  loved 
Abroad  in  Nature's  face  to  look  ; 
I  know  that  I  have  oft  been  moved 

To  sympathy  with  bird  and  brook  ; 
I  know  that  from  my  hearth-stone  I 
Have  gone  to  view  the  sunset  sky  ; 
And  climbed  the  hill,  in  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
To,  at  his  airy  gates,  await  the  rising  day. 

I  know  I  have  not  been  as  one 

Who  seeth  naught  the  fact  behind, — 
To  whom  the  sun  is  simply  sun, 

To  whom  the  wind  is  simply  wind, 
The  wood  a  wood,  the  hill  a  hill, — 
Mere  growth  or  mere  existence.     Still, 
I  can  not  speak  whereof  my  heart  hath  known  : 
I  live  as  one  who  lives  in  silence  and  alone. 


But  felt  as  deep  by  him  who  lives 

Without  the  gift  of  utterance, 
May  be  the  music  Nature  gives 

Whereof  his  life  hath  cognizance, — 
The  solemn  undertones  of  night 
And  morning's  paean  of  delight — 
As  e'ei  i,y  him  who  sounds  the  verbal  keys 
And  gives  his  every  thought  their  fitting  melodies. 


1/4 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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And  felt  as  deep  by  him  may  be 
The  graces  of  Arcadian  days  ; 
The  quiet  and  amenity 

He  finds  within  his  greenwood  ways  ; 
The  splendor  that  around  him  lies 
Of  hill  and  vale  and  changing  skies ; 
The  equal  miracle  of  sun  and  sod ; 
The  stately  flow  of  time,  and  epic  plan  of  God. 

And  he  who  loves  to  tarry  by 

The  singing  of  his  woodland  rills ; 
Who  finds  a  solace  in  the  sky, 

A  strength  and  spirit  in  the  hills  ; 
Who  loves  the  beautiful  and  good, 
The  close-discerning  habitude ; 
He  makes  a  poem  of  his  days  and  weeks. 
And  he  who  feels  it  all  is  one  with  him  who  speaks. 

Very  gentle  and  sweet  and  musical,  is  it  not?  But 
here  is  a  little  poem  entitled  "Deus  Idem,"  which  I 
think  surpasses  it  in  all  of  these  qualities.  As  we 
read  the  verses  we  seem  to  forget  the  present  and  in 
spirit  find  ourselves  slowly  wending  our  way  with 
the  poet  across  fields  radiant  with  summer  blossoms, 
and  through  woods  of  pine  and  birch  to  ' '  pleasant 
Norton  Church."  How  dear  and  familiar  the  name 
sounds  to  us.  Pleasant  Norton  Church !  We  enter 
and  hear  the  singing  of  the  good  old  hymns  and  the 
reading  of  the  Word,  and  we  note  particularly  and 
with  satisfaction  that  the  preacher's  teaching  is  in 
unison  with  that  of  earth  and  air.  A  sweet  content- 
ment rests  upon  us,  and  when  we  traverse  the  fields 
again  on  our  way  homewards  our  hearts  are  made 


HL. 


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RALPH  H.   SHAW. 


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glad  as  we  listen  to  the  birds  sending  forth  their 
psalms  of  praise  among  the  sunbeams  and  the 
flowers. 

DEUS  IDEM. 

TO  A,    B.    H. 

Through  fields  with  early  summer  fair, 
Through  woods  of  pine  and  birch, 

We  came,  with  quickened  love  of  God, 
To  pleasant  Norton  Church. 

The  gospel  of  the  daisied  fields 

And  sunlit  depths  above. 
Had  left  the  anxious  heart  its  hope, 

The  weak  assured  of  love. 

And  what  a  prelude  had  been  ours 

In  sound  of  leaf  and  bird 
To  singing  of  the  good  old  hymns 

And  reading  of  the  Word  ! 

The  church  without,  the  church  within, 

In  both  the  same  He  seemed ! 
In  both  the  same  sweet  face  of  love 

And  mercy  on  us  beamed  ! 

For  he  who  read  the  Book  had  passed 

No  page  of  nature  o'er ; 
By  each  in  turn  the  other  taught 

His  gentle  spirit  more. 

For  howsoe'er  he  chid  our  ill. 

Or  shaped  our  needful  prayer, 
His  teaching  was  in  unison 

With  that  of  earth  and  air. 


ti6 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


So,  as  we  sought  the  fields  again, 
The  joy  of  birds  was  ours. 

How  sweetly  fell  their  psalms  among 
The  sunbeams  and  the  flowers  ! 


,f  ■ 


Or  take  the  following  poem,  written  in  1881,  and 
note  how  full  it  is  of  references  to  nature  and  how 
appropriately  these  references  are  introduced  and 
follow  one  another.  Truly,  as  Mr.  Charles  Godfrey 
Leland  ("  Hans  Breitman  '*)  once  wrote  to  Mr.  Shaw, 
"There  is  a  beautiful  inspiration  of  nature  in  all  of 
your  lyrics:" 


NIGHTFALL   ON  THE  CRAGS. 


iil 


This  is  the  hour  for  wings.     We  climb 
The  sunset  hillside,  and  behold, 
Above  the  shadowy  lake  and  wold, 

Where  spacious  quiet  grows  sublime, 
What  summits  wear  the  crowns  of  gold ; 


Where  colored  by  the  irised  skies 
Wafts  now,  with  motions  soft  and  light, 
A  fleeting  air  'twixt  day  and  night. 

A  sunset  birth,  it  lives  and  dies 
A  floating  bloom  about  the  height. 


tH  • 


Now  to  his  cloud-bed  sinks  the  sun, 
From  mountain-tops  his  glance  doth  wean  ; 
And  blending  in  the  deep  serene 

That  hangs  above  us,  into  one. 
The  fading  hues  of  heaven  are  seen. 


11 


RALPH  //.   SHAW. 


1/7 


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And  winding  out  of  sunken  dells 

A  lightly-shaken  music  comes. 

Through  dusky  air  the  night-hawk  hums. 
And  now  are  hushed  the  muffled  bells, 

And  shepherd-shadows  fold  the  homes. 

And  from  the  lake  the  chilly  breeze 
Takes  hither,  as  in  dreams,  its  flight. 
Yet  stay  we  on  this  rocky  height. 

Our  pillow  is  our  boundaries — 
The  calm  horizons  of  the  night. 

Then  here  is  another  little  gem,  which  might 
readily  be  taken  from  its  tone  and  sentiment  for  one 
of  Wordsworth's  poems: 

ENJOYED  THE  MORE. 

I  murmur  not  that  most  my  days 
Are  passed  among  these  noisy  ways  ; 
That  seldom  by  my  ears  are  heard 
The  laugh  of  rill  and  song  of  bird  ; 
Or  by  my  eyes  are  seldom  seen 
The  wood-caught  rays  of  morn  and  e'en. 

Nor  envy  him  him  his  lot  who  sees 
About  him  reach  the  path  of  ease, — 
Whose  morning  care  is  whether  he 
Shall  busy  or  shall  idle  be. 
Shall  seek  the  vale,  or  climb  the  hill. 
Or  loiter  beside  the  rill. 

For  when  thou,  who  hast  held  me  fast, 
Stern  Duty  !  giv'st  consent  at  last, 
And  forth  I  go  to  wood  and  field. 
They  more  for  my  long  waiting  yield, 
By  him  whose  days  are  all  his  own. 
The  joy  /  feel  is  never  known. 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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Ralph  Henry  Shaw  was  born  in  Fisher's  Lane, 
Germantown  (Philadelphia),  Pa.,  on  the  nth  of 
April,  i860.  His  father,  Benjamin  Franklin  Shaw, 
inventor  of  the  first  Jacquard  stocking  loom  and 
founder  of  the  Shawknit  stocking  industry,  died  in 
1890.  His  mother,  Hamet  No  well  Shaw  (to  whom 
he  affectionately  dedicates  his  latest  volume  of  poems) 
is  still  living  at  Ossipee  Mountain  Park,  Moulton- 
borough,  N.  H.,  which  place  was  bequeathed  to  her 
and  others  in  the  family  by  her  husband,  who  dis- 
covered its  natural  beauty  in  1879,  and  spent  a  for- 
tune in  its  development  and  improvement.  When 
our  author  was  about  five  years  of  age  his  parents 
moved  from  Germantown  to  South  Danvers  (now 
Peabody),  Mass.,  and  here  he  attended  the  grammar 
school  for  some  time.  In  1870  his  parents  once  more 
changed  their  residence,  this  time  to  Cambridge, 
Mass.,  where  he  attended  the  Webster  Grammar 
School  for  a  little  over  a  year,  failing  health  making 
it  advisable  to  keep  him  in  the  open  air  as  much  as 
possible.  His  father,  a  man  of  very  wide  general 
information,  possessed  an  excellent  library,  and  from 
this  source  the  young  poet  learned  much,  as  he  was 
ambitious  to  learn.  He  began  writing  verses  before 
he  had  reached  the  age  of  fifteen  and  some  of  these 
juvenile  effusions,  published  in  a  little  volume  which 
was  issued  in  1 885,  display  considerable  merit.  Here, 
for  instance,  is  one  entitled  **Good  Night,"  which  is 
a  capital  piece  of  work  for  a  boy  of  that  age : 


RALPH  H.   SHAW. 


119 


Adieu,  adieu,  my  mother  dear, 

For  round  the  night  winds  sigh. 
The  little  twinkling  stars  appear 

And  coldly  light  the  sky. 
Adieu,  adieu,  my  mother  fair  ; 

I  linger  in  your  sight. 
But  soon  unto  my  bed  repair ; 

I  bid  you  now.  Good  night ! 

O,  will  the  noisy  call  of  day 

Arouse  me  to  your  face, 
To  view  the  eyes  of  purest  ray 

That  beam  a  mother's  grace  ? 
O,  may  our  God  watch  o'er  your  head — 

O,  may  your  dreams  be  light, 
And  circle  pleasure  o'er  your  head — 

I  say  again.  Good  night ! 

Burns  was  Mr.  Shaw's  first  poetical  favorite,  and 
after  him  Byron,  Moore,  Wordsworth  and  Whittier 
commanded  his  highesi  admiration.  In  June  1877 
he  moved  to  Lowell,  Mass.,  (where  he  still  resides) 
and  a  year  later  he  entered  the  office  of  the  Shaw 
Stocking  Company  there.  By  punctuality  and  strict 
attention  to  business  he  soon  raised  himself  to  an 
important  position  in  the  office,  and  for  many  years 
past  he  has  filled  the  chair  of  manager's  assistant. 
In  1 88 1  he  married  Miss  Mary  Abbie  Choate,  a  grad- 
uate of  the  Lowell  High  School  and  recipient  of  a 
Carney  medal  presented  to  her  for  excellence  in 
scholarship  and  deportment.  She  is  a  good,  intelli- 
gent, bright-eyed  woman  and  has  so  at  heart  the  in- 
terest of  her  loved  ones  and  her  home,  that  she  is  an 


I20 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


I 


I 


I  ■- 


exceedingly  good  wife.  She  likes  the  simple  and 
sweet  in  poetry  and  is  a  discriminating  and  appreci- 
ative reader.  Five  children  have  been  born  to  them, 
viz.  Ralph  Choate,  Benjamin  Choate,  Paul  Hervey, 
Warren  Waldo  and  Alice  Dorothy.  The  death  of 
the  first  named  child  in  1884  was  a  sad  event  in  the 
lives  of  the  parents,  and  not  a  few  of  Mr.  Shaw's 
most  pathetic  pieces  have  been  composed  while 
brooding  over  the  memory  of  the  lost  one.  A  brief 
specimen  of  these  may  not  be  out  of  place  here : 


HE  CLIMBS   MY  KNEE. 


■■■' 


I  can  not  see  him  anywhere, 
Nor  hear  his  childish  singing, 

His  little  prattle  here  and  there, 
His  silver  toy-bell  ringing. 

Oh,  wherefore  comes  he  not  to  me, 

As  he  was  wont,  to  climb  my  knee  ? 


11* 

1^ 


Still  sings  the  bird  he  bade  me  hear 

With  his  uplitted  finger, 
And  in  onr  sn  Ighbor's  garden  near 

The  flowers  he  saw  still  linger ; 
Oh,  wheiefore  comes  he  not  to  me 
To  point  at  them  and  climb  my  knee  ? 


V, 


His  blocks  lie  scattered  hereabout, 
His  horses  wait  his  riding — 

Where  is  he  ? — At  my  back,  or  out 
Beneath  my  window  hiding  ? 

Oh,  wherefore  comes  he  not  to  me, 

As  he  was  wont,  to  climb  my  knee  ? 


■ '  II 


RALPH  //.   SHAW. 


121 


Ah  !  to  my  higher  self  he  comes 

111  moments  that  are  goklcti  ; 
For  sunshine,  offered  to  all  homes, 

I  ath  to  God  beholden  ; 
My  smiling  angel-boy  I  see, 
And  soft  and  light,  he  climbs  my  knee. 

The  talented  and  aecomplished  authoress,  Lucy 
Larcom,  to  whom  these  verses  were  sent  before 
publication,  wrote:  *' They  are  true  poetry.  They 
will  touch  a  chord  in  many  hearts  and  I  think  it  one 
of  the  things  sorrow  comes  to  us  for — that  we  may 
draw  more  closely  to  other  lives  to  help  them."  Mr. 
Shaw  has  contributed  papers  and  poems  to  the  New 
York  Ledger,  the  Christian  Leader,  the  Cottage 
Hearth,  the  Golden  Rule,  the  Youth's  Companion, 
Burnsiana,  etc.  He  is  an  excellent  writer  of  prose 
and  his  contributions  are  greatly  admired  and  as  a 
rule  preserved.  In  regard  to  his  poems  he  says :  "I 
have  been  too  busy  earning  a  livelihood  to  devote 
much  thought  or  time  to  making  verses.  But  poetry 
to  me,  if  I  may  use  Poe's  words,  has  not  been  a 
purpose  but  a  passion.  I  have  no  literary  habits, 
and  I  think  my  best  work  is  that  which  gave  me  the 
least  trouble." 

Mr.  John  G.  Whittier's  opinion  of  his  work  how- 
ever, must  have  been  exceedingly  gratifying  to  Mr. 
Shaw,  *'  I  am  glad  to  get  thy  pretty  little  volume," 
he  wrote  in  1885:  "It  gives  me  the  feeling  of 
broader  horizons  and  mountain  presence.  I  like  the 
'  Poem '  exceedingly,  and  scattered  all  through  the 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


1 


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book  are  fine  thoughts  and  lines.  Yet  I  am  sure 
that  years  and  patient  brooding  over  thy  themes  will 
enable  thee  to  crowd  thy  verses  with  clearer  and 
deeper  meanings.  Thy  rhythm  is  veary  nearly 
perfect,  and  the  feeling,  as  a  painter  would  say,  is 
true  and  genuine,  and  there  is  a  sweet  and  delicate 
confession  of  thy  love  for  Nature  which  promises 
much.  '  The  Seekers '  pleases  me,  as  it  expresses  so 
musically  what  I  have  often  felt  among  the  hills." 
This  reference  to  Mr.  Whittier  recalls  a  very  beauti- 
ful poem  in  Mr.  Shaw's  volume,  entitled  "God  Bless 
Him."  While  the  gentle  poet  is  not  named  in  it  one 
can  readily  see  that  it  is  to  him  that  the  verses  are 
addressed : 

"GOD  BLESS  HIM." 

Why  add  a  needless  tribute  ? — yet 

As  man  and  poet,  one  is  he. 
Life,  which  is  fact,  its  seal  has  set 

On  all  his  voiced  humanity. 
He  too  might  say,  if  self-thought  led, 
What  Milton  to  Salmasius  said  ; 
But  leaves  to  God,  who  all  has  heard  and  seen, 
What  concord  lies  his  life  and  spoken  word  between. 

He  lifts  a  prayer  without  a  claim, 

fceeks  not  his  God  from  man  apart, — 
His  lips  are  burdened  with  our  name, 

Our  common  need  is  in  his  heart 
He  loves  to  serve,  as  best  he  can, 
The  holy  work  which  Christ  began, 
To  call  the  poor  benighted  from  his  way. 
So  vague  with  shadows,  up  the  sunlit  hills  of  day. 


RALPH  H.   SHAW 


1^3 


But  not  alone  our  human  weal 

Or  human  woe  is  in  his  song: 
There  Beauty  finds  a  master  leal 
And  airy  Fancy  moves  along, 
While  Wordsworth's  vestal  fire  by  turns 
Has  all  the  native  warmth  of  Burns. 
The  simplest  flower  that  smiles  in  greenwood  ways, 
The  simplest  brook  that  sings,  is  mirrored  in  his  lays. 

Clear  voice  among  our  lakes  and  hills  ! 

He  sings  of  nature  as  of  men  ; 
lie  hears  with  us  its  airs  and  rills, 

He  sees  what  lies  within  our  ken  ; 
Interpreting,  'neath  moon  and  sun, 
Its  bosom  unto  every  one. 
We  feel  the  calm  where  rise  our  northern  pines. 
We  see  the  mountain  morn  and  sunset,  in  his  lines, 

And  oh,  how  like  a  sunlit  day 

Of  whitest  winter,  warm  and  mild, 
Blown  through  by  all  the  airs  that  May 
Breathes  over  greening  slope  and  wild, 
His  old  age  round  about  him  lies  ! — 
So  seen)s  it  to  the  pilgrim's  eyes. 
"  God  biOSi"  i'.rni  !"  is  the  best  that  love  can* say  : 
And  God  be  tiianked  that  this  is  uttered  in  his  day. 


Mr.  Pi.l<rurd,  editor  of  the  1  r.  tland  Transcript, 
wrote  in  rjgard  to  this  poem:  "The  week  your  ex- 
cellent potim  addressed  to  Mr.  Whittier  was  given 
out  by  me  for  publication  I  happened  to  be  in  Bos^ 
ton  in  company  v/ith  the  poet.  He  seemed  to  be 
much  pleased  with  the  fc!.!  itou?  tribute.  It  was  all 
the  happier  because  he  w?iS  not  s\amed,    but  all  his 


124 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


If! 


\^ 


friends  recognize  him  in  it.  and  join  in  your  ben- 
ediction." As  has  already  been  noted,  Mr.  Shaw  s 
earliest  poetical  favorite  was  Bums,  and  it  is  not 
surprising  that  he  has  attempted  a  few  pieces  in  the 
dialect  used  by  the  master-poet.  Here  is  a  brief 
poem  on  Burns,  one  of  which  the  Rev.  Dr.  Robert 
Court,  a  very  learned  Scotchman,  said:  ''Rarely 
is  my  ear  satisfied  with  English  or  American  iniita- 
tions  of  Scotch  poetry.  Your  sweet  little  poe^a 
has  not  offended  me  in  that  respect.  The  thoui.';hc 
is  not  hackneyed,  the  versification  and  rhyming  are 
correct,  and  the  feeling  is  true  in  tone. " 


ROBIN. 

JANUARY   25,    1759. 


"T  was  then  a  blast  of  Janwar  win' 
Blew  hansel  in  on  Robin." 

It  was  na  sic  an  air  as  blaws 
In  simmer  frae  the  hills  an'  haughs  ; 
A  blast  o'  Janwar  wind  it  was 
Blew  hansel  in  on  Robin. 


is 


I  wonder  Nature  deemed  it  weel 
That  he,  wha  was  to  lo'e  her  leal, 
Should  first  her  caulder  season  feel, 
Sae  wi'  it  welcomed  Robin. 


But  Nature  is  past  findin'  out ; 
We  seldom  ken  what  she's  about ; 
That  she  rejoiced,  I  dinna  doubt. 
When  first  she  keek't  on  Robin. 


RALPH  H.   SUA  IV. 


125 


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He  giecl  to  her  the  love  she  sought ; 
She  led  his  feet  ayont  the  cot, 
An'  muckle  guid  to  him  she  taught : 
She  shawed  her  best  to  Robin. 

For  him  her  burnies  sweetest  sang, 
Her  wild-wood  echoes  lightest  rang  ; 
She  fostered  him  her  joys  amang — 
We  know  them  best  through  Robin. 

Nor  must  we  omit  to  refer  to  the  numerous  fine 
poems  which  Mr.  Shaw  has  composed  on  Indian  sub- 
jects. Many  of  these  compositions  are  exceedingly 
beautiful  and  prove  that  he  has  a  special  talent  for 
thus  transforming  these  interesting  legends  and 
tales  into  verse.  We  quote  as  a  specimen  *'Gloos- 
kap  and  Summer,"  of  which  Mr.  Leland,  in  com- 
menting upon  the  legend  upon  which  the  poem  is 
founded,  says : 

**  It  appears  to  be  the  completer  form  of  the  beau- 
tiful allegory  of  Winter  and  Spring  given  in  the 
Hiawatha  Legends  as  Peboan  and  Seegvvum.  The 
struggle  between  Spring  and  Winter,  Summer  and 
Winter,  or  Heat  and  Cold,  represented  as  incarnate 
human  or  mythic  beings,  forms  the  subject  of  sev- 
eral Indian  legends." 

GIvOOSKAP  AND  SUMMER. 

Worshipped  by  the  Wabanaki 

Or  the  Children  of  the  Light, 
Glooskap  or  the  god  of  nature, 

Sought  the  northland  cold  and  white  ; 


126 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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And  within  a  wigwam  sitting, 

Deep  in  silence  and  alone, 
Found  a  giant,  a  great  giant, 

By  the  name  of  Winter  known  ; 
And  he  listened  in  the  wigwam 

To  the  tales  the  giant  told, 
Till  his  head  was  bowed  in  slumber, 

Till  he  yielded  to  the  cold. 
•.  ii=>.i;  he  saw  in  sleeping  visions, 

:  o  -e  of  all  the  wise  men  say  ; — 
Saw  he  Summer  vanquish  Winter  ? 

Make  the  northland  light  and  gay  ? 

When  he  woke  he  travelled  southward — 

When  with  every  footstep  grew 
Winds  more  soft  and  skies  more  tender — 

Till  the  flowers  round  him  blew, 
Till,  amid  the  leafy  forest. 

In  the  sunny  south  he  found 
Summer  with  her  fairies  dancing 

lyike  the  falling  waters  round. 
Straight  he  caught  her  ;  but  to  keep  her 

In  his  bosom  from  her  folk, 
By  a  wile  he  must  deceive  them  : 

Fair  he  made  the  words  he  spoke  ; 
And  he  spoke  them  in  retreating. 

Backward  going,  o'er  and  o'er — 
Ah  !  her  folk,  he  had  escaped  them 

When  they  heard  his  words  no  more. 

Then  again  he  sought  the  northland 
Where  old  Winter  still  abode  ; 

Now  with  Summer  in  his  bosom, 
With  her  spirit  overflowed  ; 

And  was  once  again  made  welcome 
To  the  wigwam  cold  end  bare  ; 


RALPH  H.  SHAW. 


127 


For  the  giant  thought  he  surely 

Would  again  be  sleep-bound  there. 
But  he  now  had  sunny  Summer 

And  the  cold  was  all  in  vain, 
And  the  sweat  from  Winter's  forehead 

Fell  like  drops  of  April  rain, 
Till  at  length  the  giant  melted 

And  his  wigwam  r;  assed  from  view. 
And  around  fiovved  pleasant  rivers 

And  the  green,  lush  grasses  grew. 

Did  space  permit  we  would  like  to  say  a  great  deal 
more  in  connection  with  Mr.  Shaw  and  his  poems. 
The  larger  and  in  some  respects  the  best  poems  in 
his  book,  such  as  "The  Bear  Hunt,"  "Fallen  on 
Sleep,"  "The  White  Arrow,"  and  many  others,  we 
have  not  touched  upon.  They  are  too  long  for  quo- 
tation, but  in  all  of  them  we  discern  the  fine  taste 
and  the  exquisite  workmanship  of  a  true  poet,  and 
whatever  the  subject  may  be,  the  beauties  of  nature 
are  never  lost  sight  of.  They  are  interwoven  in  the 
most  delicate  manner  into  each  composition,  and 
they  constitute  a  particular  and  pleasing  feature  of 
his  whole  work.  Mr.  Shaw  enjoys  the  friendship  of 
many  well-known  literary  people,  the  Rev.  Arthur 
John  Lockhart,  author  of  "  The  Masque  of  Min- 
strels," and  Dr.  Benjamin  F.  Leggett,  author  of  "A 
Sheaf  of  Song,"  "A  Tramp  Through  Switzerland," 
etc.,  being  among  the  number. 

And  here  we  may  appropriately  conclude  our 
sketch  with  a  tribute  of  respect  to  him  from  another 
friend,  the  venerable  journalist  and  song- writer,  Mr. 


If 


/28 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


'•) 


Thomas  C.  Latto,  author  of  "Memorials  of  Auld 
Lang  vSyne"  and  various  other  important  works.  A 
literary  man  of  high  attainments,  a  noted  critic  and 
an  eminent  poet,  this  gentleman  is  certainly  well 
qualified  to  pass  judgment  on  the  creations  of  a 
brother  bard,  and  as  his  opinions  on  such  matters 
are  known  to  be  unbiased,  they  are  therefore  of 
great  value,  and  I  am  truly  glad  that  Mr.  vShaw's 
poem,:  came  under  his  notice  and  that  he  rendered 
the  following  verdict  on  them  : 

ON  READING  THE  TOEMS  OF  RALPH  H.  SHAW. 

The  pompous  minstrel  has  no  charms  for  me  ; 

No  sympathy  have  I  for  turgid  strain  ; 

But  pensive  feeling  ne'er  appeals  in  vain — 
And  that  is  thine,  calm  bard  of  Ossipee  ! 
Melodious  thoughts  like  Wordsworth's  flowing  free, 

Like  Longfellow's  resounding  as  the  main, 

With  Bernard  Barton's  cadence,  that  would  fain 
Throb  sweetest  soitow  to  the  moaning  sea. 
Friend  !  thou  hast  compassed  more  than  was  designed  ; 

Thy  shrinking  nature  failing  to  perceive. 
When  pouring  forth  the  treasures  of  thy  mind, 

The  texture  of  the  woof  so  few  could  weave. 
I  joy  to  mark,  in  restless,  feverish  days, 

The  pure  and  simple  current  of  thy  lays. 

High  Priest  of  Nature  ne'er  thou  claim'd  to  be. 
And  yet  among  her  worshippers  who  kneel 
In  holy  fervor,  touch'd  with  Christian  zeal, 

Thou  staudst  very  near  the  hierarchy. 

Those  white-robed  acolytes,  on  bended  knee. 
The  Temple's  magic  mystery  know  and  feel, 
Finding  a  sacred  influence  o'er  them  steal. 


RALPH  H.   SHAW. 


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Imparting  light  that  they  may  clearer  see         • 
As  taper  after  taper  sheds  its  rays 

From  the  high  altar,  how  they  glow  and  bitrn  ; 
Their  souls  rapt  in  an  ecstacy  of  praise 

As  back  to  soHtude  they  mutely  turn, 
Brooding  with  pallid  face,  head  meekly  bowed, 
Till  come  the  time  when  they  must  cry  aloud. 


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.  ! 


REV.  ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART. 


"PASTOR  FELIX." 


11 


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i 


Among  the  poets  of  to-day  whose  merits  are  not 
so  well  known  to  the  general  public  as  they  deserve 
to  be,  is  the  Rev.  Arthur  John  Lockhart,  ("Pastor 
Felix").  Mr.  Lockhart  is  at  present  a  resident  of 
Hampden  Corner,  Maine,  and  is  the  author  of  two 
handsome  volumes  of  poetry,  the  one  entitled  "The 
Masque  of  Minstrels,"  and  the  other,  "  Beside  the 
Narraguagus  and  Other  Poems."  Between  the 
boards  of  these  two  volumes  is  considerable  poetry 
of  a  very  high  class.  Of  course,  in  a  brief  article 
like  the  present  one,  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  do 
justice,  or  even  point  out  the  many  poetic  beauties 
which  are  embodied  in  each  volume,  and  I  will  there- 
fore confine  myself  principally  to  the  contents  of  the 
earliest  of  the  two,  "The  Masque  of  Minstrels,"  pub- 
lished by  B.  A.  Burr,  Bangor,  Maine,  in  1887,  and 
which  contains  361  pages. 

There  is  nothing  insignificant  or  abstruse  or  un- 
poetical  in  Mr.  Lockhart's  verse.  His  themes  are 
numerous  but  his  subjects  are  well  chosen,  and  we 
become  interested  and  attached  to  them  at  once. 
His  muse  is  pure,  bright,  cheerful  and  inspiring, 
while  each  of  his  poems,  daintily  clothed  in  classical 
and  musical  language,  is  set  before  us  intelligently, 


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REV.  AKTHLR  JOHN   UOCKHAKT. 


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REV.    ARTHUR  JOHN   LOCK  HART. 


'31 


complete  and  finished — like  a  cameo.  He  possesses 
great  lyrical  sweetness,  profound  thoiifi;-ht,  consid- 
erable orijjfinality,  sincere  tenderness,  j^^ood  arj^n- 
mentive  powers,  true  but  jjenial  piety,  besides  a 
warm  love  for  fatherland,  for  nature  and  all  created 
thinjjfs. 

OpeninjTf  his  book,  almost  at  bep^inninjj,  our  eyes 
rest  on  the  followinjj  delijjhtful  lyric  embodied  in 
the  poem,  "Alice  Lee:" 


What  the  star  is  to  the  sky, 
And  the  pearl  is  to  the  sea, 

What  the  light  is  to  the  eye. 
And  the  leaf  is  to  the  tree  ; 

What  the  joy  of  niountinjj  wings 

To  the  bird  that  soars  and  sings,— 
Thou  art  to  nie. 

Like  to  halcyon,  heavenly  calm, 
After  strife  of  stormy  sea, 

Like  an  hour  of  ease  and  balm, 
After  moan  and  agony  ; 

Or  the  summer's  golden  glow. 
After  bursts  of  wintry  snow, — 
Thou  art  to  me. 


■i;' 


This  is  really  beautiful  and  remi  I'^^s  me  of  another 
sweetly  expressed  little  song,  more  recently  com- 
posed, and  entitled — *'  In  the  Lodge:' 

Softly,  my  baby  ! 
Nest  thee,  my  blossom 
On  mother's  warm  bosom : 
Of  dewiest  slumber  thou  sippest  thy  fill. 


Hf  ' 


1.^2 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Still  dimmer  and  dimmer  the  ashy  coals  glimmer, — 

The  lodge  is  in  gloom  ; 
How  balmy  the  breath  qf  the  forest  in  bloom  ! 
The  owl  is  hooting  afar  on  the  hill, 
And  deep  in  the  glade  sings  the  brown  whippoorwill ; 

The  star  doth  incline  to  the  tip  of  yon  pine  ; 
The  moon  is  just  rising,  the  aspen  is  still. 
O  sweet,  mother-blossom,  lie  still  on  my  bosom ! 
Sleep  softly,  my  baby  ! 

These  sonnets  may  be  appropriately  introduced 
here  as  illustrations  of  the  easy  and  ji^raceful  manner 
in  which  Mr.  Lockhart  can  compress  many  rare 
thoun^hts  into  little  space : 

SUNSET  ON  THE   NARRAGUAGUS. 

Not  the  attire  of  kings  when  crowns  are  set 

'Mid  coronation  splendors,  have  such  sheen 

As  now  in  these  November  skies  are  seen, — 

Where  late  the  day  in  his  fire-chariot 

Rode  down  the  western  hills,  that  lighten  yet ! 

Twilight  her  tent  of  purple  and  of  gold 

Pitches  on  yon  dark  crag,  and  manifold 

Dapples  the  river  where  its  waters  fret 

Past  the  low  bank  in  leafless  quietude. 

The  new  moon  haloes  soft  her  crystal  sphere  ; 

Glassed  'mid  the  shadow'd  trees  she  beauteous  lies  : 

Such  glory  comes  to  gild,  such  peace  to  brood. 

Changing  to  gold  and  pearl  the  dark'ning  year, — 

The  nunith  of  wailing  winds  and  shadowy  skies  ! 

SiNOW  IN   OCTOBER. 

Ah,  soon  the  glistering  glory  shall  appear 
In  billowy  ridges  by  the  fenced  fields ; 


,,,*,      »:„ 


REV.    ARTHUR  JOHN   LOCK  1 1  ART. 


f33 


And  the  dark  firs,  like  Parian  pyramids, 

Shall  shonlder  their  white  masses  thro'  the  woods, 

The  pines  and  larches  wail  amid  the  cold. 

The  birch  emboss  her  silver  coat  with  ice, 

The  gaunt  elm  shout  and  wrestle  with  the  wind  ; 

For  where  the  Indian  sannner  lingered  long, 

With  the  sweet  essence  of  distilled  light, 

And  sweet'ning  breath  that  sighing  nature  gives  ; 

Where  falling  leaves  are  scattered,  lying  hid 

In  withered  heaps  beneath  the  (leecy  drift. 

Of  forest  spoils  the  beechen  shrub  alone 

Holds  fast  its  rustling  leaves  of  paly  gold. 

HAMPDEN. 

Jur.Y  4. 

Aloof  the  village  stands,  bosom'd  in  trees  ; 
Penobscot  rolls  his  sunbright  wave  below  ; 
There  plies  the  steamer  ;  there  the  vessels  go. 
With  white  sails  swelling  in  the  fresh' ning  breeze. 

How  sweet  these  airs  that  bl  jv  from  blossomy  leas  ! 

How  sweet  the  sound  of  boaiman's  dipping  oar 

By  Orrington's  sequester' d,  sylvan  shore, — 

And  all  the  river's  lights  and  melodies  ! 
Hark  !  'tis  the  sound  of  mirth  !  where  youthful  bands, 

With  many  a  note  vociferous,  move  along  ! 

There  floats  yon  storied  banner,  that  commands 
The  patriot's  deepest  love,  his  loudest  song  ! 

The  bells  are  glad,  and  every  heart  is  gay. 

To  usher  in  a  Nation's  natal  day. 


These  sonnets  also  demonstrate  that  Mr.  Lock- 
hart's  descriptive  powers  are  exceedingly  keen  and 
alert.     He   describes   what   he  sees  and   feels  and 


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W  CLlJSTKh'  OF  jv/r/x 


thinks  in  a  JL»;r.iphic  and  pleasing  style,  and  the  mind 
experiences  no  wearysome  sensation  in  readinjj^  of 
his  coniniitnini;s  with  nature.  The  following  is  a 
lon,v;er  and  fuller  specimen  of  his  powers  in  this 
connection : 


It '  f: 

]      ; 


I  :| 


t.^i 


^ 


NARRAtUIAGUvS. 

The  sun  is  sot ;  an  amber  mist 

I'ills  all  the  vale  ; 
The  lapsing  river,  glory-kist, 
Is  j{ol(l,  and  pearl,  and  amethyst. 
Where  on  its  mirror  breast  the  beaded  bubbles  sail. 

Lo  !  from  this  russet  hill  I  gaze 

On  such  a  scene 
As  i)oets  k)ve  to  paint  and  prai.«e  ! 
While  sunset's  blazon  overpays 
My  heart,  with  evening's  balm  and  splendor  so  serene. 

The  dark  trees  stand  in  nnked  grace  ; 

And  the  green  marge 
Is  softened  on  the  river's  face, 
With  flakes  of  fiery  cloud.    I  trace 
It's  flow  where  you  dark  hill  casts  down  its  shadow  large. 

I  see  where  o'er  the  dam  it  goes 

In  music  down  ; 
And,  sparkling,  breaks  its  sheen  repose, 
Where  under  yon  red  bridge  it  flows, 
Atid  lu.ikes,  by  winding  banks,  its  circuit  through  the  town. 

Down-sent  from  foresit-lakes,  begemmed 
With  islets  small ; 


REV.    ANTIIUR  JOHN   LOCKIIART. 


'35 


Hero,  si)re(ulin;^  wide,  tlieri',  closely  heiiinied  ; 
With  eve's  soft  jrU)ries  difuleiuM, 
Till  in  the  welcoiiiinji^  sea  ifs  lover-waters  fall. 


By  mill,  and  mart,  and  home,  and  where, 

'Mid  darklinj^  fnrze 
Whit )  stones  out-gleam,  (the  dead  are  there) 
And  by  the  hallowed  place  of  prayer. 
Aiding  with  constant  song  the  hymning  worshipers. 


Ill: 


In  immelodions  monotone 

The  mills  I  hear  ; 
The  rattling  gear,  the  waters*  drone, 
Tiiu  shrieking  saws  ;  while, — duskier  grown 
The  eve, — I  see  aloft  a  fiery  shaft  uprear  ; — 

A  luminous,  sparkling  colunni,  eurl'd 

Above  the  trees  : 
It's  ever-bright'ning  folds  unfnrl'd, 
As  gentle  shadows  wrap  the  world. 
While  still  my  ear  drinks  in  the  river's  melodies. 

All  burdens  fall  away, — my  heart 

Again  is  free  ; 
Time's  paly  haggard  ghosts  depart. 
Blest  be  the  hour !     'Tis  more  than  Art, 
This  grandeur  and  this  calm  of  earth,  and  air  and  sea  ! 


In  this  wide  world  of  dream  I  yield 

Myself  to  you, 
Spirit  seiene  of  flood  and  field  ! 
No  sweeter  harvest,  Time  can  yield, 
Than  I  have  reaped  'neath  stars,  and  'mid  the  falling  dew. 


136 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


w 


Sing  on,  O  river,  while  I  still 

Can  sit  to  hear  ! 
Ah  !  sooH,  npon  this  lonely  hill, 
Some  other  eye  and  heart  shall  fill 
With  rapture  and  with  tears  to  list  tli'e  singing  near. 

Sing  oji,  O  river  !  I  am  glad 

That,  though  I  fail 
From  this  sweet  scene  to  wander  where 
I'ar  other  woods  and  streams  are  fair, 
Thou  wilt  remain  to  chant  the  music  of  thy  vale. 

I've  loved  thee  well,  thou  thing  of  light 

And  melody  ! 
Ah,  Narraguagus  !  when  a  night 
All  starless,  wraps  me  from  thy  sight, 
And  other  lovers  come,  wilt  thou  remember  me  ? 

The  "Masque  of  Minstrels"  contains  twenty-five 
poems,  and  the  remaining  one  himdred  and  three 
poems  comprised  in  the  volume  are  classified  under 
the  heading  of,  ''Moods  and  Fantasies,"  "  vSongs  of 
Memory  and  Home,"  and  "Songs  of  Aspiration  and 
Endeavor."  It  is  well  that  these  poems  have  been 
published  in  this  permanent  form.  We  have  not 
met  with  so  fine  a  collection  of  poetry  for  many  a 
day  as  is  here  presented  to  us,  and  we  confidently 
predict  that  Mr.  Lockhart  will  ultimately  attain  both 
distinction  and  honor  as  ai).  American  poet.  He 
certainly  has  imagination  and  power  and  talent 
enough  to  warrant  this  prediction.  Many  of  his 
longer  poems  are  magnificent  creations,  f  till  of  choice 
expressions,  lofty  ideas  and  brilliant  metaphors.     As 


REV.    ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCK  HART. 


137 


usual,  however,  with  such  ]ioems,  they  require  to  be 
read  through  before  they  can  be  thoroughly  appreci- 
ated, and  it  would  occupy  too  much  space  were  we 
to  attempt  to  reprint  any  of  them  here.  One  of 
them,  entitled  '*The  Isle  of  Song,"  is  a  poetic  dream 
of  an  island  on  which  the  poets  were  assembled. 

if.  He  iK  *tc 

The  cherub  winds  blew  down,  and  in  delight 
Toyed  with  the  wave-tips  white  ; 
And  h.'ippy  singing  maids,  hand  link'd  in  hand, 
Danced  o'er  tracts  of  snowy-golden  sand. 


Infinite  pearls  of  shadow,  lay  the  shells 
Where  wove  the  sea  its  spells  ; 
And  the  Jihy  nymphs  tossed  up  their  shining  hair, 
And  the  sun  glimmered  on  their  shoulders  bare. 

Tall  pines  were  overhung,  and  fringed  palms 
Where  soft  the  sea  sung  psalms ; 
And  from  each  dell  the  scented  inland  air 
Bore  breath  of  opening  blossoms  everywhere. 

«  %  4<  « 

And  when  the  moon  was  silverly  revealed 

In  her  ambrosial  field, 

Down  to  the  shore,  with  harps  no  longer  dumb, 

Fearless  of  death  I  saw  the  poets  come. 

A  wondrous  Genius  led  them,  and  impelled, 
Who,  when  their  songs  excelled, 
Plucked  the  fresh  laurel  for  the  victor's  wreath 
And  showed  the  fame  that  cometh  after  death. 


'^^■m 


138 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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There  was  the  poet  "who  sang  the  Acadian  Maid," 
and  the  reverend  form  of  him 

Who  in  sweet  Roslyn  marked  the  flight  of  years. 

With  them  "were  the"* sons  of  ages  gone,"  and  also 
the  daughters,  and  the  humbler  poets, 

Sappho  swart,  and  she — 
Britain's  white  rose,  beloved  of  Italy. 

There  were  "Etruria's  bard,"  and  "they  who 
chanted  Israel's  lore  sublime,*  and  "  they  of  Hellas 
and  the  Mantuan  Plain." 


Ii^ 


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Homer  had  his  clear  song  and  vision  bright, 
Nor  Milton's  orbs  must  roll  to  find  the  light. 

There  was  Shakespeare,  of  "the  serene  and  spa- 
cious brow,"  and  the  wrapt  evangelist  [John] 

But  when  I  saw  my  earliest  love  draw  near, 
And  heard  his  song  sincere 

Who  charmed  sweet  Doon,  and  did  his  cadence  suit 
To  sylvan  Coila's  step  and  woodland  flute ; — 

While  Rydal  raised  his  gravely  reverend  face 
To  Shelley's  child-hued  grace  ; 
And  he  whose  dust  'neath  Latlum's  violetj  lies, 
Lifted  to  me  his  soul  in  languorous  eyes  ; — 

«  «  «  « 

With  tears,  1 1  cached  to  them  my  hands,  and  crie  1 : 
"Let  me  not  be  denied  ! 


REV.    ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCK  HART. 


^39 


Take  me  to  be  with  you,  ye  much-loved  throng  ! 
Life  is  too  lonely  for  the  child  of  song. 

Forlorn,  companionless,  in  dread  and  dearth, 

And  weary  of  the  earth, 

Bid  me  to  your  serene,  immortal  shore. 

Where  hearts  faint  not,  nor  song  is  hindered  more. 

They  beckoned   him,  and  he  essayed  to  come,  but 
before  his  barge  pressed  keel  upon  its  margin, 


Melted  their  isle  like  snow ;  alone  I  lay  ; 
And  lo  !  it  was  the  breaking  of  the  day. 


Another  very  fine  poem  is  the  one  entitled,  **  In 
Camp  Hill  Cemetery. "  This  is  principally  a  glow- 
ing eulogy  in  commemoration  of  the  Canadian  poet 
and  patriot,  Joseph  Howe.     It  concludes  as  follows: 

Death,  the  pale  scribe,  hath  a  celestial  grace  ; 

For  when  the  gifted  and  noble  die 
She  smiling  turns  her  oft-averted  face. 

To  write  their  consecrated  names  on  high. 

Then  cometh  Fame  !     Her  lifted  fertures  shine ! 

Her  measuring  arm  advanced  amid  the  spheres, 
Throughout  the  earth  she  runs  her  glorious  line. 

And  seeks  to  compass  the  eternal  years. 


Let  her  record  his  works  and  powers  sublime, 
His  aims  and  wishes,  to  his  country  given  : 

He  dwells  secure  ;  his  name  belongs  to  Time, 
His  sonl  to  God,  his  record  unto  Heaven. 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Draw  softly  near, — he  sleeps,  our  Patriot-bard, 
Where  God's  dew  falls  and  fresh  his  green  grass  keeps! 

Draw  near,  and  drop  a  tear  of  proud  regard 
On  this  autumnal  turf  'neath  which  he  sleeps  ! 

Then  bid  some  fairer  monument  arise  ; 

So  shall  our  grateful  sous  his  honors  know. 
So  shall  their  hearts  aspire,  so  shall  they  prize 

Th'  illustrious  dead  to  whom  so  much  they  owe. 

And  bid  this  spot  to  flush  with  crowding  flowers, 
That  round  him  creep  and  climb  with  hastening  bloom 

Before  the  weeping  spring's  memorial  showers. 
To  breathe  and  brighten  o'er  their  Poet's  tomb. 

So  bid  his  memory  live,  his  fair  fame  grow. 
While  sweetly  wakes  on  the  Acadian  lea 

Our  country's  emblem,  pearly  from  the  snow, 
Or  our  fair  city  overlooks  the  sea. 

I  rose,  and  pluck'd  a  leaf  to  bear  away. 
For  now  I  marked  my  comrade's  slow  return  : 

Softly,  successive  of  the  sunset  ray. 
Eve's  lucent  splendor  had  begun  to  burn. 

With  tone  subdued,  in  converse  of  the  dead. 
The  way  we  took  to  our  Acadian  town, — 

Passed  the  green  slope  with  hesitating  tread. 
And  from  the  citadel  went  slowly  down. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  delicate  manner  in  which 
Mr.  Lockhart  weaves  his  thoughts  into  verse,  we 
quote  **The  Waters  of  Carr."  Here  we  have  a  poem 
of  great  beauty,  simple  in  detail,  charming  in  con- 
ception, full  of  feeling  and  pathos  and  eloquence, 
the  work  of  an  enthusiast. 


REV.    ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART. 


lit 


THE  WATERS  OF  CARR. 

O  do  you  hear  the  merry  waters  falling, 

In  the  mossy  woods  of  Carr  ? 
O  do  you  hear  the  child's  voice  calling,  calling, 
Through  its  cloistral  deeps  afar  ? 
'Tis  the  Indian's  babe,  they  say, 
Fairy-stolen,  changed  a  fay  ; 
And  still  I  hear  her  calling,  calling,  calling. 
In  the  mossy  woods  of  Carr ! 

O  do  you  hear  when  the  weary  world  is  sleeping, 

Dim  and  drowsy  every  star. 
This  little  one  her  happy  revels  keeping 
In  her  halls  of  shining  spar  ? 
Clearer  swells  her  voice  of  glee. 
While  the  liquid  echoes  flee, 
And  the  full  moon  through  deep  green  leaves  comes  peeping. 
In  the  dim -lit  woods  of  Carr. 

Know  ye  from  her  wigwam  how  they  drew  her. 

Wanton-willing,  far  away  ; 
Made  the  wild- wood  halls  seem  home  unto  her,— 
Changed  her  to  a  laughing  fay  ? 
Never  doth  her  bosom  burn. 
Never  asks  she  to  return  ; — 
Ah,  vainly  care  and  sorrow  may  pursue  her, 
Laughing,  singing,  all  the  day! 

And  often,  when  the  golden  west  is  burning, 

Ere  the  twilight's  earliest  star, 
Comes  her  mother  led  by  mortal  yearning. 
Where  the  haunted  forests  are  ; — 
Listens  to  the  rapture  wild 
Of  her  vanished  fairy  child  : 
Ah,  see  her  soon  with  smiles  and  tears  returning 
FVom  the  sunset  woods  of  Carr  ! 


J 


142 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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They  feed  her  with  the  amber  dew  and  honey, 

They  bathe  her  in  the  crystal  spring, 
They  set  her  down  in  open  spaces  sunny, 
And  weave  her  an  enchanted  ring ; 
They  will  not  let  her  beauty  die, — 
Her  innocence  and  purity  ; 
They  sweeten  her  fair  brow  with  kisses  many. 
And  ever  round  her  dance  and  sing. 

O  do  you  hear  the  merry  waters  falling, 

In  the  mossy  woods  of  Carr  ? 
O  do  you  hear  the  child's  voice  laughing,  calling, 
Through  its  cloistral  deeps  afar  ? 
Never  thrill  of  plaintive  pain 
Mfngles  with  that  ceaseless  strain  : — 
But  still  I  hear  her  joyous  calling,  calling, 
In  the  morning  woods  of  Carr. 

Mr.  Lockhart  was  born  on  the  fifth  of  May,  1850, 
in  a  small  village  some  few  miles  distant  from  Hants- 
port,  on  the  uplands  overlooking  the  Avon  and  the 
Basin  Minas.  Canada.  His  father,  Albert  Lockhart, 
was  for  many  years  a  master  mariner,  and  his  mother, 
Elizabeth  Bezanson,  was  of  Huguenot  descent,  her 
ancestry  having  emigrated  to  America  in  times  of 
persecution.  "I  had  such  education,"  writes  Mr. 
Lockhart,  '  *  as  books  and  a  common  school  afforded. 
The  books  that  nourished  me  earliest  were,  the  Bible, 
an  old  dark-covered  hymn-book-looking  edition  of 
Currie's  Bums,  a  pocket  edition  of  Gray  and  one  of 
Goldsmith.  By  these  my  tastes  in  poetry  were 
formed,  and  they  hold  still  the  perfect  charm.  Later 
came  Byron,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and  the  rest.     I 


REV.    ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCK  HART.  143 


began  to  rhyme  early,  did  so  in  fact  in  school  on  my 
slate  when  I  should  have  ciphered.  I  loved  figures 
of  speech,  and  hated  numerals.  They  convey  little 
to  me,  even  to-day.  At  the  age  of  four  I  received  an 
injury  to  my  left  foot,  and  was  through  childhood  a 
cripple  and  partial  invalid,  never  sharing  in  rough 
play  or  athletics,  but  fond  of  roving  in  fields  and  by 
brooks,  brooding  by  the  way."  His  birth  place  held 
many  charms  for  him,  and  it  is  affectionately  referred 
toinhispoems  "Acadie,"  '* The  Alien's  Message," 
*'  To  my  Father,"  *'  By  Avonside,"  and  "Gaspereau." 
"The  last  named  poem,"  writes  W.  G.  Macfarlane  in 
the  Dominio7i  Illustrated,  "  is  the  offspring  as  much  of 
the  scene  it  describes  as  of  the  poet  who  wrote  it." 

"Any  one  w^ho  has  been  privileged  to  see  the 
Gaspereau  valley,  one  of  the  prettiest  pictures  of 
quiet,  graceful,  rural  beauties  imaginable,  will  see 
at  once  that  the  poem  is  full  of  the  inspiration  of 
the  place.  Imagine  your.self  on  a  point  of  vantage, 
the  bend  of  a  road,  crossing  a  span  of  South 
Mountain  to  Gaspereau  village.  You  are  on  the 
summit  of  a  hill  overlooking  the  valley.  Before  you 
lies  its  whole  length  of  about  ten  miles,  with  a  mile 
of  breadth.  Through  its  centre  flows  the  narrow 
Gaspereau  stream,  at  times  foaming  over  rocks  and 
again  rushing  along  in  an  unripplcd  rapid,  while  the 
luxuriant  willows  that  fringe  the  banks  cast  their 
perfect  reflection  into  the  water.  On  its  edge  is  a 
small  mill,  looking  in  the  distance  like  a  toy  house, 
while  it  is  crossed  b}^  a  rustic  bridge.     »SuiTounding 


ii!- 


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144 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


the  bridge  is  a  little  hamlet  with  a  pretty  church, 
and  along  the  side  of  the  valley  are  prosperous,  well- 
kept  farms,  with  smiling  orchards  and  grain  fields 
and  dotted  with  patches  of  spruce  and  fir.  The 
valley  seems  to  be  shut  in  by  the  hills  at  both  ends, 
and  at  its  lowest  extremity  the  stream  broadens  into 
what  appears  to  be  a  lake,  a  fancy  that  renders  the 
picture  the  more  romantic.  In  reality,  though,  it  is 
an  estuary  of  the  stream  that  empties  into  the  Basin 
of  Minas,  at  Grand  Prd  flats,  and  just  beyond  the 
reach  of  vision  is  where,  over  a  century  since,  the 
English  vessels  were  moored  when  the  memorable 
expulsion  took  place."  In  Lockhart's  poem  the  whole 
peaceful  scene  is  reflected.  Some  of  the  stanzas  are 
as  follows: 

O  sweet  Acadian  vale  !  with  thee 

My  earlier,  happier,  years  were  passed  ! — 
The  day  of  blest  security, 

The  peaceful  hours,  too  bright  to  last, — 
When  on  thy  hills  I  sang  in  joy, 

And  traced  thy  brook  and  river's  flow  ; 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  minstrel  boy, 

O  much-loved  vale  of  Gaspereau  ? 

Oft  memory  on  the  track  returns 

By  which  my  life  the  earliest  came ; 
And  Fancy  many  a  scene  discerns, 

And  lists  to  many  a  magic  name  ; 
Then  do  thy  woods  and  streams  appear, 

With  paths  my  wandering  feet  did  know, 
And  all  thy  music  meets  my  ear, 

O  winding  vale  of  Gaspereau  ! 


t 


REV.    ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCK  HART.  145 


How  oft,  from  yon  hill's  dark'uing  brow 

Where  twinkles  first  the  evening  star, 
I've  watched  the  village  windov.-s  glow 

At  sundown  in  the  vale  afar  ; 
Or,  from  the  shadowy  bridge  leaned  o'er 

The  river's  glinnnering  darks  below, — 
Breathed  freshness  of  the  sylvan  shore. 

And  heard  the  songs  of  long  ago  ! 


'Twas  here,  of  old,  a  people  dwelt, 

Whose  loves  and  woes  the  poet  sings  ; 
The  beauty  of  the  scene  they  felt, 

When,  'mid  the  golden  evenings, 
They  set  the  willows,  lush  and  green, 

Now  gnarled  in  their  fantastic  age. 
That  with  their  blacken'd,  broken  mein, 

Still  stand — the  blackbird's  hermitage. 

Secluded  in  this  calm  retreat, 

They  tilled  the  soil  and  reared  the  home ; 
Nor  dreamed  to  an  abode  so  sweet 

The  lordly  spoiler  e'er  could  come  : 
For  them  the  corn,  green-waving,  grew. 

Studded  with  many  a  yellowing  gem  ; 
Round  them  the  doves  and  swallows  flew. 

And  coo'd  and  twitter'd  love  for  them. 


f 


In  187 1  Mr.  Lockhart  entered  the  Methodist  min- 
istry and  was  stationed  at  Pembroke  Iron  Works. 
He  was  subsequently  stationed  at  Lubcc,  East 
Machias,  Orrington,  East  Corinth,  Cherryfield,  and 
lastly  at  Hampden  Corner,  Maine.  In  1873  he  was 
united  in  marriage  to  Miss  Adelaide  Beckerton,  a 
well  educated  and  highly  accomplished  yoimg  lady. 


^ 


146 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


%' 


She  is  a  helpful,  affectionate  woman,  who  warmly 
reciprocated  the  love  of  a  noble  husband.  Her 
virtues  and  goodness  of  heart  have  called  forth  many 
effusions  of  a  tender  nature,  and  we  reprint  one  of 
these  here  as  a  token  of  esteem  to  a  lady  who  pos- 
sesses all  the  requirements  which  make  her  sex  be- 
loved, honored  and  admired : 


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TO   MY   WIFE. 

0  welcome  is  the  moment 
When,  now  released  from  care, 

1  watch  the  low  decending  sun 
That  goldens  all  the  air  ! 

0  happy  is  the  evening, 
If  dark  or  bright  it  be, 

That  sees  the  hours  of  labor  close 
And  brings  my  love  to  me. 

Come  near,  my  own,  my  darlinjj ! 

That  I  thy  face  may  see, 
And  tinge  my  sober-suited  thought 

With  thy  smile  of  sunshine  fice  : 
To  me  thou'rt  fair  as  the  dawning, 

And  sweet  as  the  sweet  dew-fall ; 
Thou  art  leal  and  true  to  thy  chosen  few. 

Thou  art  frank  and  kind  to  all. 

1  mind  me  well,  my  darling  ! 
When  love  first  breathed  tl  le. 

The  blush,  than  speech  more        luent. 

That  in  living  answer  came  ; 
'Twas  a  path  obscure  a  iid  lowly 

Thou  k newest  mine  must  be  ; 
But  I  bless  kind  Heaven,  whose  love  hath  given 

One  lot  to  thee  and  me  ! 


REV.    ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCK  HART. 


'i? 


'Tis  a  dreamy  life,   my  darling  ! 

That  thou  hast  come  to  share  ; 
Do  the  deeps  atid  dells  of  Fairyland 

Seem  for  thee  too  faint  and  rare  ? 
Yet,  with  all  of  heaven-horn  nmsic 

And  of  whitest  poesie, 
Life's  crowning  bliss  my  heart  might  miss 

If  it  were  not  for  thee, 

And  who  are  these,  my  darling  ! 

That  round  thee  closely  cling. 
As  round  some  pearly-crested  rose 

The  beauty-bxids  of  spring  ? 
Our  hearts  leap  high  with  rapture 

As  our  babe  leaps  in  his  joy, 
And  a  pure  delight  is  our  lassie  bright 

And  our  laughter-loving  boy  ! 

So  beautiful,  my  darling  ! 

Our  lowly  life's  decline  ; 
And  softly  round  our  parting  hour 

The  lights  of  evening  shine  : 
One  life,  with  faith  unbroken. 

One  love,  from  falsehood  free. 
And,  by  God's  grace,  in  a  holier  place, 

One  Heaven  for  thee  and  me. 

Presided  over  by  Mrs.  Lockhart,  our  author's 
home  and  its  surroundings  are  happy  and  peaceful, 
everything  being  congenial  to  his  religious  and  poetic 
tastes.  They  have  four  sons  and  three  daughters. 
The  eldest,  Edith  is  a  teacher  in  Central  St.  School, 
Springfield,  Mass.  James,  the  next,  is  a  graduate 
from  the  Cherryfield  High  vSchool ;  Albert  and  Alton 
are  studious,  and  yet  live,    active   boys;    Mary  and 


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A  CFALSTER  OF  IVETS. 


Grace  have  just  left  the  kindergarten,  and  Ralph 
Harold  has  just  entered  it.  The  cottage  in  which 
they  resided  while  at  Cherryfleld,  was  a  pretty  little 
place,  nestling  in  a  setting  of  willows,  acacias,  horse 
chestnuts,  elms,  lilacs,  sweet-briar  and  hop-vines, 
l^elovv  flowed  the  Narraguagus  river  ;  and  behind 
was  a  little  thicket,  the  poet's  rustic  retreat,  which 
he    apostropbiz^ed   as  follows: 

MY  SYLVAN   STUDY. 

This  is  tny  oratory  :  studious,  oft 

I  conic,  nt  inorn,  at  eve,  to  this  retreat : 

Wild  is  the  bower,  and  ancieiit  is  the  seat ; — 

My  chair,  a  rock,  with  grass  and  mosses  soft 

Fringed  and  enamelled.     In  a  neighboring  croft 

My  children  sport,  not  far  from  my  own  door, 

Searching  (Hit  leaves  and  flowers, — a  beauteons  store. 

The  blackbirds  chatter  sociably  aloft ; 

Round  me  grouped  silvery  birches,  thorns  full  flushed 

With  milky  blossoms  ;  on  my  open  page 

Lie  shadowy  leaves,  jewelled  in  golden  light : 

— And  hark  !  a  voice,  whose  music  straight  is  hushed  ! 

Quick  jjattering  steps  my  partial  ear  engage. 

And  little  Golden  Hair  buighs  on  my  sight ! 

Mr.  Lockhart  is  an  active  worker  from  morning 
till  evening,  church  work,  educational  work,  and 
literary  work,  keeping  him  busy  all  the  time.  He  is 
a  contributor  to  the  Dominion  Illustrated,  Week,  Can- 
adian Monthly,  Maritime  Monthly,  St.  John  Telegraph, 
St.  John  Progress,  Methodist  Magazine,  The  Land  Wc 
Live  In,  Caiiada,  and  other  leading  Canadian  journals, 


NEV,  ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCK  HART. 


//9 


and  to  the  Magazine  of  Poetry^  Portland  Transcript, 
Eastern  State,  Zion's  Herald  and  other  journals  of  the 
United  States.  He  has  written  a  series  of  prose 
articles  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Pastor  Felix," 
and  the  general  titles  of  '*  Heart  on  the  Sleeve  "  and 
**  Red  and  Blue  Pencil"  to  the  Portland  Transcript 
and  Dominion  Illustrated.  He  has  also  appeared  in 
such  works  as  Lighthall's  "Songs  of  the  Great  Do- 
minion," "The  Poets  of  Maine,"  "  Round  Burns' 
Grave,"  "Burnsiana,"  "Highland  Mary,"  "The 
Burns  Scrap  Book,"  etc. 

The  poetical  powers  of  Mr.  Lockhart  are  shown  to 
great  advantage  in  his  various  religious  musings.  In 
them  we  find  many  chaste  and  useful  thoughts  care- 
fully studied  out,  while  a  spirit  of  faith,  hope,  charity 
and  love,  with  a  sacred  feeling  of  the  highest  kind 
predominates  throughout  all  of  them.  The  follow- 
ing appeared  in  the  Optimist,  a  little  religious 
monthly  once  published  at  Cherryfield  by  our  author 
and  the  Rev.  Gilbert  Edgett: 


THE  WILLING  WORKER. 

Ricbly  the  grapes  in  Thy  vineyard,  O  Lord  ! 

Hang  in  their  clusters  of  purple  delight : 
I  have  attended  the  call  of  Thy  Word, 

Working  for  Thee  since  the  dawning  of  light 
Sweetly  the  sunset  gleams  over  the  lea  ; 

Yet  I'm  not  weary  of  working  for  Thee ! 

Ripe  are  the  fruits  in  Thy  garden,  O  Lord  ! 
Fair  are  the  flowers  Thou  lovest  to  twine ; 
Master  !  no  labor,  no  pains  I  have  spared, — 


I.; 


•  [••  ;.  .'I 


m 


I 


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/50 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Long  have  I  wrought  in  this  garden  of  Thine  : 
Many  the  vStars  that  in  Heaven  I  see  ; 
Yet  I'm  not  weary  of  working  for  Thee  ! 

Deep  wave  Thy  harvests  in  acres  untold  ; 

Gladly  I  reaped  in  the  heat  of  the  day  ; 
Now  the  moon  rises  in  fulness  of  gold  ; 

Slowly  the  reapers  are  moving  a..vay  ; 
Wide  is  the  plain,  and  not  many  are  we, 

Yet  I'm  not  weary  of  working  for  Thee  ! 

Dim  grow  mine  eyes  'mid  the  fast  fading  light ; 

Falters  the  heart  from  the  toilsome  constraint ; 
Scant  on  my  forehead  my  locks  h.ave  grown  white, — 

Lord  !  'tis  the  body  is  weary  and  faint ! 
Finished  the  task  thou  hast  given  to  me  ; 

Yet  I'm  not  weary  of  working  for  Thee  ! 

Two  more  brief  quotations  and  I  will  close.     The 
following  speak  for  themselves: 

TO  THE  AUTHOR    OF  "SCOTTISH  POETS    IN 

AMERICA." 

They  are  not  born  in  vain  who  live  to  bless 

And  solace  others  ;  who,  while  others  strive 

Out  of  the  spoils  of  men  to  grow  and  thrive, 

Abjure  the  meed  of  wrong  or  selfishnesss. 

He  does  not  live  in  vain  who  maketh  less 

The  sum  of  human  sorrow  ;  who  inspires 

Hope  in  the  breast,  and  kindles  love's  sweet  fires  ; 

Whose  charity  relieves  a  friend's  distress. 

Long  ma\'  he  live,  to  whom  is  ever  dear 

A  brother's  fame  ;  whose  eye  can  recognize, 

Whose  pen  proclaim,  the  merit  that  he  sees  ; 

Who,  with  his  books  and  friends  holds  gentle  cheer ; 

And  whom  a  poet's  song  or  maxim  wise 

Can  never  fail  to  interest  and  please. 


REV.  ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART. 


151 


' 


PASTOR  FKLIX  TO   HENRY  W.    HOPE. 

While  winter  winds  may  shrilly  blow, 
The  Highland  hills  are  draped  in  snow, 
And  Paint's  fair  waters  drumlie  flow. 

Or  ice-bound  grope ; 
But  spring's  soft  zephyrs  echoing  go, 
Inspiring  Hope. 

When  Highland  hills  are  flowering  seen. 
And  Highland  woods  are  robed  in  green, 
And  Paint's  clear  waters  glittering  sheen, 

Shall  be  released. 
You,  Hope,  with  "scallopshell,"  I  ween, 

May  travel  east. 

Mayhap  Quebec,  or  wild  Brasd'orr, 

Chebucto,  Tusket,  or  Jeddore, 

May  win, — their  beauties  to  explore, — 

Your  pilgrim  feet ; 
Or  e'en  Penobscot's  bluffy  shore 

Your  eyes  may  greet. 

Then  let  us  know  before  you  come, 
That  you  may  find  "  the  folk  to  hum  ;" 
We'll  walk  and  talk,  and  chirp  and  chum, 

Beyond  a  doubt ; 
And — vocal  day,  or  midnight  dumb — 

"  The  latch-string's  out." 

With  these  few  critical  remarks,  and  quotations 
from  the  writings  of  Mr.  Lockhart,  we  conclude  our 
sketch.  He  has  just  entered  on  the  prime  of  man- 
hood and  we  shall  be  greatly  disappointed  if  he  does 
not  give  even  a  better  account  of  his  poetic  talents 
in  years  to  come  than  he  has  already  given. 


GEORGE  MARTIN. 


,  if  i.i 


i  :t 


Ireland  has  been  liberal  in  her  contribution  of 
manhood  to  America.  Like  Scotland,  she  has  many- 
singers,  and  not  a  few  of  them  have  come  to  our 
shores  and  made  us  richer  with  the  pathos  and 
sweetness  of  their  songs.  Leaving  out  of  the  ques- 
tion the  Ryans,  O'Reilleys  and  Roches,  who  have 
found  a  home  in  the  United  States,  Canada  rejoices 
in  her  goodly  number.  She  will  never  forget  that 
Erin  gave  to  her  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee,  whose 
speeches  and  songs  were  the  emanations  of  a  rich 
and  noble  life.  She  will  not  forget  that  from  the 
same  shore  she  has  drawn  such  liberal  and  accom- 
plished scholars  as  John  Reade  and  Nicholas  Flood 
Davin,  memorable  also  as  poets;  and  that  from 
Innisfail  she  has  one  of  her  truest  masters  of  roman- 
tic verse, — George  Martin. 

His  name  was  early  associated  with  that  of  the 
dramatic  poet,  Charles  Heavysege.  It  was  the 
privilege  of  our  genial  and  generous  author  to  be 
the  friend  and  benefactor  of  that  austerely  beautiful 
select  spirit,  who  walked  among  us  unrecognized; 
it  was  his  to  depict  him  in  his  own  verse,  as  one 
who  bore  the  burden  of  song,  and  who  had  attained 
to  something  like  prophetic  strain.  Martin  de- 
scribes him : 


GEORGE  MARTIN. 


^53 


Child-like,  modest,  reticent, 
With  head  in  meditation  bent. 
He  walked  our  streets! — and  no  one  knew 
That  something  of  celestial  hue 
Had  passed  along;  a  toil-worn  man 
Was  seen,  no  more;  the  fire  that  ran 
Electric  through  his  veins,  and  wrought 
Sublimity  of  soul  and  thought, 
And  kindled  into  song,  no  eye 
Beheld,  until  a  foreign  sky 
Reflected  back  the  wondrous  light. 
And  heralded  the  poet's  might. 

When  the  existence  of  such  devotion  is  questioned, 
let  it  be  remembered  how  truly  he  was  a  friend,  and 
gave  the  livliest  proof  of  manly  sympathy  and  disin- 
terested esteem.  For,  let  it  be  said,  to  his  praise, 
that  when  the  writer  of  "  Saul"  would  publish  the 
Boston  edition  of  his  drama,  and  was  financially 
unable,  our  poet  came  forth  with  a  fund  reserved 
for  a  similar  purpose,  and  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  own 
ambitions,  thought  to  giwQ  his  brother  a  triumph. 
Mr.  Lighthall,  in  his  Canadian  anthology,  speaks  of 
this  money  as  a  loan,  and  says:  *'  '  Saul'  turned  out 
a  financial  loss,"  and  that  on  the  day  when  Heavy- 
sege's  note  fell  due,  "  Martin  took  it  in  his  b'nd  and 
tore  it  to  pieces."  Thus,  doubtless,  it  occurred  that 
not  till  1887  did  his  own  volume,  "Marguerite;  or 
The  Isle  of  Demons,  and  Other  Poems,"  appear  from 
the  house  of  Dawson  Bros.,  Montreal;  though,  as 
one  writer  has  intimated,  distrust  of  his  own  merits 
tmd   true   reverence   for   the  poetic  art — which  he 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


rather  longed  than  expected  to  magnify — may  have 
contributed  to  the  delay. 

Hon.  Charles  H.  Collins,  Hillsboro,  Ohio,  thus 
writes  of  our  author:  "Mr.  Martin  is  thoroughly 
knov'ii  to  the  Canadians,  who  have  been  lovers  of 
his  pOv^try  for  more  than  a  generation.  In  Rev.  Dr. 
Dewart's  collection  of  1864,  some  notable  poems  of 
Mr.  Martin  appeared.  He  still  lives,  an  honored 
citizen  of  the  largest  city  in  Canada.  He  was  born 
in  1822,  near  Kilrea,  in  the  County  Derry,  Ireland; 
so  is  now  seventy-four  years  of  age,  and  hale,  vigor- 
ous and  genial,  after  years  of  active  and  very  suc- 
cessful business  life.  For  a  long  time  previous  to 
Dr.  Dewart's  collection,  Mr.  Martin  had,  as  business 
avocations  permitted,  written  much  in  prose  and 
verse  for  the  Montreal  press.  Mr.  John  Reade — 
himself  a  scholar  and  literateur  of  prominence — 
states  that  Mr.  Martin's  verse  always  attracted 
attention  for  its  characteristic  vigor  and  charm — 
the  vigor  of  a  strongly-marked  individuality,  at  once 
deep  and  broad,  and  the  charm  of  thoughts  that 
voluntarily  move  in  harmonious  numbers.  While 
still  a  boy  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  Mr.  Martin  first 
discovered  that  he  was  gifted  with  the  muse's  power. 
Mr.  Reade  in  his  article  in  The  Magazine  of  Poetry, 
gives  an  appreciative  sketch  of  Mr.  Martin;  it  is 
brief  but  generous  in  its  scope.  ''He  is  of  Ulster 
stock,  which  is  more  vScottish  than  Irish,  and  to 
which  Burns  speaks  a  language  more  intelligible 
than  that  of  Moore  or  Davis  or  Mangan."    When  ten 


I 


GEORGE   MARTIN. 


'55 


years  of  age,  Mr.  Martin  came  with  his  family  to  a 
b^sh  farm  in  Upper  Canada.  Life  in  the  t^ush  did 
not  suit  him ;  it  afforded  no  opportunity  for  develop- 
ment, and  the  poet  crossed  over  the  border  into  the 
United  States.  After  prospecting  the  territory  he 
entered  the  Black  River  Institute,  at  Watertown, 
N.  Y.  Mr.  Read e  says:  *'With  what  assiduity  the 
youiig  aspirant  gave  himself  to  his  studies  those  who 
have  the  privilege  of  his  acquaintance  need  not  be 
told.  He  learned  the  rare  art  of  thinking  for  him- 
self, without  which  the  taste  for  promiscuous  reading 
is  more  a  drawback  than  an  advantage."  Mr.  Reade 
traces  his  career  as  a  physician,  which  he  abandoned 
for  photography,  devoting  himself  to  that  fascinat- 
ing art  for  more  than  thirty  years.  Mr.  Martin 
went  to  Montreal  in  1852,  and  has  resided  there  ever 
since.  His  skill,  diligence  and  genial  manners 
brought  him  patronage  and  generous  returns  for  his 
industry.  He  had  a  family  to  provide  for,  and  he 
by  no  means  deemed  it  prudent  to  make  what  Wil- 
liam Cullen  Bryant  calls  *'the  poet's  vow  of  poverty." 
In  1866  he  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits,  and  was 
eminently  successful.  His  sons  have  succeeded  him 
in  his  earlier  business,  which  (partly  under  his  direc- 
tion) has  undergone  great  enlargement.  Mr.  Reade, 
in  his  conclusion  says:  '*If  Mr.  Martin  has  been 
prosperous  in  his  undertakings,  he  has  been  still 
more  blessed  in  his  home.  He  has  the  priceless 
boon  of  a  devoted  and  accomplished  wife ;  and  if  he 
has  not  escaped  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to,  he  has, 


i 


^56 


A  ciJJSTEk'  OF /v/rrs. 


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in  sons  that  venerate  him  and  grand-children  that  he 
adores,  (of  whom  Georgie  and  Ethel  are  not  nn- 
known  to  fame)  a  companionship  that  never  dies." 
Mr.  Reade's  sketch  was  published  in  1891.  May  we 
hope  that  all  the  pleasant  conditions  he  speaks  of 
still  continue.  If  ever  man  deserves  happiness 
George  Martin  does,  and  he  is  justly  honored  by  his 
fellow  citizens  for  himself  alone,  and  not  for  bor- 
rowed glory.  As  citizen,  business  man,  father  and 
friend. 

None  know  him  but  to  love  him, 
Or  name  him  but  to  praise." 

What  Mr.  Martin  thinks  of  the  poet's  life  and  art 
may  be  drawn  from  two  stnnzas  of  a  poem  addressed 
to  Georgie,  his  grandson : 

If  Parnassian  blooms  invite  thee 

Up  the  sacred  mount  to  climb, 
Think,  before  its  lightnings  smite  thee, 

What  the  honeycombs  of  rhyme 
Cost  the  builders; — save  a  few 
Weeping  willow  and  the  yew, 

Restful  Silence,  Bride  of  Time, 
Are  the  only  signs  that  tell 
Where  the  baffled  singees  fell, 

Broken-hearted  ere  their  prime. 

Yet,  if  from  the  circling  heaven 

Mystic  voices  call  thee  hence — 
Call,  and  whisper  morn  and  even, 

Captivating  soul  and  sense, 
Hearken  gladly,  hark  and  trust. 


i 


CEORGE   MARTIN. 


157 


To  thy  hij^hcr  self  be  just; 

See  thou  offer  no  oneucc 
To  the  linked  harmonic  powers 
'Hiat  pervade  this  world  of  ours, 

Rhythmic,  passionate,  intense. 

It  may  justly  be  said  that  he  has  been  faithful  to 
his  hij^h  vocation,  and  has  done  *'the  linked  har- 
monic powers"  no  wronjif. 

BOOKS. 

In  books  I  find  companionship,  they  are 

My  household  gods,  and  naught  shall  wholly  bar 

Their  voices  from  me  ;  from  their  precious  pages 

I  quaff  the  immortality  of  ages. 

They  are  the  spirits  of  the  dead,  not  dumb; 

From  ancient  tombs  and  monuments  they  come 

To  hold  communion  with  the  living ;  they. 

While  nations  perish  and  the  world  grows  gray, 

Their  regal  power  and  pristine  beauty  keep. 

Despite  the  havoc,  nnd  inglorious  sleep 

Of  centuries  that  bore  a  crimson  hue, — 

Despite  the  flames  which  they  have  travelled  through, 

Unscathed  they  hold  their  sceptres,  meek  they  Ixiar 

These  royal  dignities  ; — like  light  and  air 

They  enter,  silver-shod,  the  humblest  door, 

And  breathe  their  benedictions  on  the  poor. 

Ye  avatars,  true  saviors  of  the  world. 

Round  whom  the  hopes  of  wisest  souls  are  curled. 

Be  mine  through  life,  in  pain,  or  pleasure,  mine  ! 

If  near  me  still  your  pleasant  faces  shine. 

The  skies  may  lower — upon  my  thorny  path 

The  heavens  may  pour  their  cataracts  of  wrath  ; 

I  need  not  falter,  need  not  hold  my  breath. 

Nor  tremble  at  the  menaces  of  Death. 


' 


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158 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


ETHEL. 

Little  sky- waif,  come  astray 
Twice  twelve  months  ago  to-day  ! 
What  a  world  of  joy  is  thine  ! 
What  a  glow  of  summer  shine 
Cheers  the  house  wherein  thou  art, 
Sly  magician  of  the  heart ! 

In  those  large,  those  azure  eyes. 
All  the  splendor  of  the  skies, 
All  the  beauty  that  belongs 
To  the  poet's  sweetest  songs, 
All  the  wisdom  known  and  lost 
That  the  wisest  sage  could  boast, 
Beam  and  lure  and  half  reveal 
Secrets  that  the  gods  conceal. 

See  those  ringlets  all  unshorn 
That  her  pretty  neck  adorn  ; — 
Golden  hues  and  silken  gloss 
On  the  charmed  air  they  toss 
Sun- gleams  in  a  starry  spray. — 
Dearest  little  laughing  fay  ! 

See  her  tiny  feet  beat  time, 
In  an  ecstacy  of  rhyme. 
To  the  pearly  notes  that  win 
From  the  speaking  violin. 
See  her  fingers,  dimpled,  white, 
Mimic  with  a  grave  delight 
Those  that  wonderingly  she  sees 
Race  along  the  ivory  keys. 

Hear  her  prattle,  indistinct ; — 
Much  we  guess  at,  still  we  think 


t 


GEORGE  MARTIN. 


'59 


K  may  be  some  long  lost  speech 
That  she  fondly  strives  to  teach — 
Language  known  to  airy  things, 
It  may  chance,  whose  spirit  wings 
In  a  merry  mischief  keep 
lyittle  human  elves  from  sleep. 

Ask  her  father,  ask  her  mother, 
They  will  vouch  there  is  no  other, — 
Never  was  on  land  or  sea 
Such  a  charming  girl  as  she. 
Surely  they  who  know  her  best 
Must  the  simple  truth  attest ; 
But  if  further  proof  you  seek. 
Let  her  solemn  grandpa  speak. — 
He  a  mightj  oath  will  swear. 
By  the  silver  in  his  hair ! 
By  his  sober-sided  muse  ! 
All  good  people  needs  must  choose 
Make  confession,  that  for  grace. 
Loveliness  of  form  and  face. 
Ways  so  simple,  yet  so  wise, 
Large-eyed  Ethel  takes  the  prize. 

A  GREETING. 

TO    PASTOR    FEI,IX. 

How  spins  this  old  planet  with  you. 

Pastor  Felix  ? 
Is  anything  going  askew. 

Pastor  Felix  ? 
Is  your  muse  waxing  cold  ? 
Does  she  flout  you,  or  scold  ? 
Have  a  care,  over  there,  what  you  do. 

Pastor  Felix ! 


I 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Stand  off  on  your  dignity,  stand, 

Pastor  Felix, 
lyike  a  prince  that  is  used  to  command, 

Pastor  Felix ! 
And  the  damsel,  don't  doubt, 
Will  soon  cease  to  flout, 
And  stretch  you  her  glorious  hand, 

Pastor  Felix. 

Grim  Pinch-nose  is  now  well  nigh  gone, 

Pastor  Felix ; 
His  daughter  will  greet  us  anon. 

Pastor  Felix ; 
With  a  song  of  the  South 
In  his  passionate  mouth, 
The  robin  will  wake  us  at  dawn, 

Pastor  Felix. 

Then  let  us  make  haste  to  forget. 

Pastor  Felix, 
The  dolorous  days  of  regret. 

Pastor  Felix  ; 
For  sunshine  and  bloom 
Will  unravel  the  gloom 
That  has  compassed  our  soul  like  a  net. 

Pastor  Felix ! 

Your  hand !  and  a  kindly  adieu. 

Pastor  Felix ; 
My  thoughts  they  are  often  of  you. 

Pastor  Felix  ! 
Could  we  meet  face  to  face, 
We  would  surely  embrace. 
As  brothers  long  parted  might  do, 

Pastor  Felix ! 


GEORGE  MARTIN. 


/6r 


KEATS. 

Full  late  in  life  I  found  thee,  glorious  Keats  ! 
Some  chance-blown  verse  had  visited  my  ear 
And  careless  eye,  once  in  some  sliding  year, 

Like  some  fair-plumaged  bird  one  rarely  meets. 

And  when  it  came  that  o'er  thy  page  I  bent, 
A  sudden  gladness  smote  upon  my  blood  ; — 
Wonder  and  joy,  an  aromatic  flood, 

Distilled  from  an  enchanted  firmament. 


And  on  this  flood  I  floated,  hours  and  hours, 
Unconscious  of  the  world's  perplexing  din. 
Its  blackened  crust  of  misery  and  sm, 

Rocked  in  a  shallop  of  elysian  flowers. 

All  melodies  of  earth  and  heaven  are  thine. 

That  one  so  young  such  music  could  rehearse 

As  swells  the  undulations  of  thy  ver.se 
Is  what  Hyperion  only  might  define. 

The  voices  of  old  pines,  the  lulling  song 
Of  silver-crested  waterfalls,  the  sweep 
Of  symphonies  that  swell  the  booming  deep 

To  thy  immortal  minstrelsy  belong. 

Nor  less  the  whispered  harmony  that  falls 
Like  twilight  dews  from  heaven's  starry  arch. 
For  gentle  souls  that  listen  to  the  march 

Of  airy  footfalls  in  ethereal  halls. 

Unhappy,  happy  Keats  !  A  bitter  sweet 
Was  thy  life's  dream  ;  Death  grinning  at  thy  heels, 
While  Fame,  before  thee,  smiled  her  grand  appeals. 

Tempting  to  dizzy  heights  thy  winged  feet. 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Methinks  thou  didst  resemble  (overbold 
May  be  the  fancy  !)  thy  Endyinion — 
Now  charmed  with  earth-born  beauty,  and,  anon, 

Finding  some  imperfection  in  the  mould. 

He  sued  a  heaven-born  splendor  to  allay 
The  hunger  and  the  fever  i)f  his  heart ; 
And  thus  to  Cynthia  he  did  impart 

The  fearful  secret  of  his  misery. 

Oh,  had  he  missed  this  Hippocrene,  and  slept 
Without  fidl  measure  of  the  choicest  draught 
That  ever  mortal  man  divinely  quaffed, 

What  depth  of  bliss  the  Gods  from  me  had  kept ! 

SCOTLAND. 

Old  Scotia !    Though  they  never  more 
May  stand  upon  thy  rugged  shore, — 
The  lofty  fame  which  thou  hast  won, 
The  daring  deeds  thy  sons  have  done, 
Thy  storied  glens,  and  streams,  and  heights. 
Where  heroes  fought  for  freeman's  rights. 
And  stubborn  as  the  will  of  fate. 
Maintained  their  independent  state, — 
These  feeding  still  their  patriot  fire, 
Will  never  let  the  flame  expire  ; 
And  when,  beneath  a  foreign  sky, 
Some  home-nursed  trifle  meets  the  eye, — 
A  simple  blue  bell  from  the  glen 
Where  trod  the  feet  of  '  Cameron  Men," 
Or  white-cheeked  daisy  from  the  braes 
Wiiere  Burns  exhaled  his  thrilling  lays  ; — 
A  sigh  will  rise,  a  tear  will  start, 
And  every  prompting  of  the  heart 
Though  half  the  globe  should  intervene. 


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GEORGE  MARTIN. 


1^3 


Will  teach  them  evermore,  I  ween, 
To  tr  eet  and  hold  their  Hallowe'en. 

From  Hallowe'en  In  Canada. 


UNCLE  JOE. 

It  is  pleasing  to  know  that  the  sage  "  Uncle  Joe" 
Has  rounded  the  corner  of  four  score  and  two  : 

Your  hand,  my  old  friend,  closely  clasped  to  the  end, 
Let  the  mile  stones  before  us  be  many  or  few. 

Three  decades,  at  least,  since  our  first  social  feast. 
And  never  a  break  in  the  chain  of  those  years  ; 

Through  sorrow  and  joy,  we  have  journeyed,  old  boy  ! 
Drawn  closer  together  by  laughter  and  tears. 

Wnat  meetings  I  what  talkings  !  what  loungings  and 
walkings, 
In  happiest  fellowship,  we  two  have  known  ! 
What  thought  and  wha<.  feeling,  under  heaven's  blue 
ceiling. 
Have  charmed  the  fleet  seasons  that  o'er  us  have  flown  ! 

Though  the  morning  and  noon,  and  the  sun  and  the 
moon. 

Are  not  all  they  were  in  the  days  that  are  gone. 
No  cloud  bars  the  weit,  and  no  demons  infest 

The  twilight  whose  hush  is  like  that  of  the  dawn. 


Thy  hand,  then,  old  friend,  closely  clasped  to  the  end. 
While  we  tread  life's  declivity,  cheerful  and  brave ; — 

Unlike  some  who  think  flowing  glasses  to  clink 
With  Clootie, — then  cut  him  when  nearing  the  grave. 


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164 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE. 

APRIL   7TH.    1868. 

There  is  mourning  to-day  in  the  halls  of  the  great, 

And  homes  of  the  people  of  lowly  estate. 

A  deed  has  been  done  which  o'ershadows  the  heart 

With  a  darkness  and  horror  that  will  not  depart. — 

The  Poet  and  Statesman  lies  cold  in  his  gore, 

His  eloquent  ucceuts  will  thrill  us  no  more  : 

No  more,  with  our  hearts  to  all  charities  strung. 

Shall  we  listen  to  catch  the  sweet  sound  of  his  tongue. 

That  tongue,  whose  enchantment  could  hold  us  in  thrall, 

Will  never  more  gladden  the  close,  crowded  hall ; 

But  the  light  of  his  genius  will  shine  o'er  the  land. 

And  his  fame,  like  Mount  Royal,  forever  shall  stand  ; 

For  his  thoughts  were  the  light  of  our  northern  sky, 

And  the  soul's  spoken  melody  never  can  die. 

O  God  !  could  no  virtue,  no  pity,  restrain 

The  wretch  who  has  sown  such  a  harvest  of  pain  ? 

What  though  on  the  scaffold  he  die  for  the  deed 

That  causes  fotui  hearts,  like  his  victim,  to  bleed  ? 

A  million  such  lives  no  atonement  can  make 

P'or  the  star  that  is  quenched,  for  the  sorrows  that  shake 

Our  trust  in  the  highest  and  holiest  plan, 

Our  faith  in  the  ultimate  goodness  of  man. 

FI^ORATv  TEXTS  FROM  PASTOR  FELIX. 

ON  RECEIVING  FROM   HIM  SOME 

SPRAYS  OF  SWEET  BRIAR 

OUT  OF  MAINE. 

I. 

Sweet  briar  and  delicious  rose, 

Wild  rose  of  Maine, 

W  hose  crushed  hearts  still  retain 

The  perfumed  breath  that  Nature's  love  bestows, 


GEORC^  MARTIN. 


I  prize  you  for  the  sake  of  him 

Whose  fingers  pressed 
And  tenderly  caressed 

Your  beauty,  ere  it  languished  and  grew  dim. 


^65 


11. 


II- 
Wild  rose  and  briar  sweet, 

Not  long  ago 

You  wantoned  in  the  glow 
Of  sun  and  breeze,  and  listened  to  the  beat 
Of  your  own  hearts — a  note  of  joy  : 

The  gypsy  bee 

Took  from  your  virgin  lips  his  fee 
For  service  done  in  Flora's  chaste  employ. 


III. 

Fair  exiles  !  here  beneath  my  roof 

Take  rest,  and  take 

My  pity  for  your  own  dear  sake  ; 
Ah  !  spare  your  host  your  eloquent  reproof, 
Your  dumb,  pathetic  questioning  why, 

For  what  offense. 

On  what  unjust  pretense. 
He  doomed  you  in  a  foreign  laud  to  die. 


IV. 

lyisten,  O  honored  guests,  I  pray  ! 

The  kindly  bard, 

High-seated  in  the  world's  regard. 
But  meant  by  your  soft  breathings  to  convey 
A  sense  of  truer  song  than  any  muse 

Has  ever  sung. 

Than  any  mortal  tongue 
Has  ever  written,— could  he  wiser  choose  ? 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


V. 

Not  poets  only  were  you  born, 

But  in  you  dwell 

The  fearless  souls  of  Bruce  and  Tell, 
Breathing  on  tyrant  heads  defiant  scorn. 
All  tlxis,  and  more  than  this,  my  friend — 

A  Druid  wise 

Made  bold  to  symbolize 
By  those  untutored  charms  that  in  you  blend. 


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VI. 

"A  gracious  argument,  we  grant," 

The  flowers  sighed, 

Then  added,  with  a  touch  of  pride, 
"  Our  wasted  bosoms  thrill  again  and  pant. 
For  we  have  hope  that  in  your  lay 

We  still  shall  live, 

And  therefore  we  forgive 
The  hand  that  wrought  us  premature  decay." 


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HUNTI'.R    MAC  CrLLOCII, 


HUNTER  MacCULLOCH. 


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BEFORE  I  GO. 

Before  I  go  with  thee,  O  beckoning  death  ! 
Let  me  more  deeply  breathe  this  potent  breath ; 
That  our  great  gardener,  Life,  whom  much  I  owe, 
May  somewhat  be  repaid  before  I  go. 
For  am  not  I  her  seed  ?  her  tender  shoot  ? 
The  slender  sapling,  slowly  taking  root? 
Her  tree  in  bloom  ?  in  whose  first  bearing  year, 
Before  the  blossoms  are  gone,  lo,  thou  art  here  ! 

Shadow  of  Life  !  Before  I  go  with  thee 

Where  hand  nor  voice  can  reach,  nor  eye  can  see, 

Oh  !  let  me  longer  vise  my  heritage  ; 

So  I  may  fill  life's  partly  written  page. 

Let  life's  great  play  move  onward  to  the  end, 

And  I  be  lover,  husband,  father,  friend  ; 

Knight-errant,  eager  to  move  and  mould  mankind, 

Set  free  the  weak,  the  strong  to  break  and  bind. 

Oh,  touch  not  now  my  life-warm  heart  and  brain, 

For  ere  I  pass  to  nothingness  again, 

All  would  I  be  that  man  may,  and  would  do 

Some  worthy  thing  to  set  me  with  the  few. 


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Let  life's  oil  burn  till  the  flame  be  faint  and  low, 
O,  Death  !  before  I  go. 


These  serious  and  well-expressed  lines  are  copied 
from  an  unpretentious  little  volume  of  poetry  enti- 
tled   **From   Dawn   to  Dusk,    and   Other   Poems," 


I  '"f   i 


/6S 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


I 


written  by  Hunter  MacCulloch  and  published  by  the 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  of  Philadelphia  in  1887. 
While  they  contain  much  for  the  thoughtful  reader 
to  reflect  upon,  and  although  we  can  easily  trace  the 
touch  of  a  masterhand  in  their  composition,  yet  they 
by  no  means  represent  the  finest  product  of  their 
author's  poetic  powers.  But  when  I  first  read  them, 
they  seemed  to  exercise  a  peculiar  fascination  over 
me,  and  having  retained  more  than  a  passing  inter- 
est in  them  ever  since,  I  concluded  to  gratify  my 
feelings  of  admiration  by  using  them  as  an  introduc- 
tion to  this  sketch  of  Mr.  MacCulloch  and  his  writ- 
ings. 

As  a  poet  Mr,  MacCulloch  is  entitled  to  a  promi- 
nent place  among  the  bards  of  America.  A  certain 
critic  once  said  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  that 
*'he  did  not  write  orations  or  disquisitions  or  essays 
or  stories,  but  poe^ns''  and  this  may  with  all  truth- 
fulness apply  to  Mr.  MacCulloch.  For  he  has  the 
heart  and  the  feelings,  the  taste  and  the  spirit,  of  a 
true  poet ;  and,  as  a  result,  his  poetry  is  intelligent 
and  eloquent,  dignified  and  graceful.  Whatever  he 
has  written  he  has  written  well.  Poems  like  the 
following  will  hardly  be  allowed  to  become  obsolete : 


HAD  I  BUT  KNOWN. 


Had  I  but  known  that  nothing  is  undone 
From  rising  until  rising  of  the  sun, 

That  full-fledged  words  fly  off  beyond  our  reach. 
That  not  a  deed  brought  forth  to  life  dies  ever ; 


HUNTER   MA  C  CUL L  OCH. 


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I  would  have  measured  out  and  weighed  my  speech, 
To  bear  good  deeds  had  been  my  sole  endeavor — 
Had  I  but  known. 


Had  I  but  known  how  sviftly  speed  away 
The  living  hours  that  make  the  living  day, 

That  'tis  above  delay's  so  dangerous  slough 
Is  hung  the  luring  wisp-light  of  to-morrow  ; 

I  would  have  seized  time's  evanescent  now  ! 
I  would  be  spared  this  unavailing  sorrow — 
Had  I  but  known. 

Had  I  but  known  to  dread  the  dreadful  fire 
That  lay  in  ambush  at  my  heart's  desire, 

Wherefrom  it  sprang  and  smote  my  naked  hand. 
And  left  a  mark  forever  to  remain  ; 

I  would  not  bear  the  fire's  ignoble  brand, 
I  would  have  weighed  the  pleasure  with  the  pain — 
Had  I  but  known  ! 

Had  I  but  known  we  never  can  repeat 

Life's  springtime  freshness  or  its  summer  heat. 

Nor  gather  second  harvest  from  life's  field. 
Nor  aged  winter  change  to  youthful  spring ; 

To  me  life's  flowers  their  honey  all  would  yield, 
I  would  not  feel  one  wasted  moment's  sting — 
Had  I  but  known  ! 

'•From  Dawn  to  Dusk"  consists  of  a  group  of 
twenty  very  beautiful  poems  linked  together  by  a 
thread  of  continuous  interest,  and  the  other  poems 
in  the  volume  are  arranged  or  classed  under  the 
headings  of  *' Soliloquies,"  "Epigrams,"  "Songs" 
and  "  Idyls  of  the  Queen."  There  is  truly  much  to 
admire  in  all  of  them.     Interwoven  among  the  long- 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


er  poems  are  many  small  pieces  of  considerable 
ititerest  and  power,  which  add  j^reatly  to  the  value 
of  the  volume.     Here  is  a  dainty  specimen: 

vSTAY  WITH    UvS  YET. 

Stay  with  us  yet !  oh  !  day  in  haste  to  leave  us  ; 

Thy  fast-flesending  sun  too  soon  will  set ; 
To  part  with  thy  sweet  hours  will  sorely  grieve  us — 
Stay  with  tis  yet ! 

Stay  with  us  yet !  oh  !  night  of  mirthful  madness  ; 

Thy  midnight  moment  all  too  soon  is  met ; 
To  part  with  thy  gay  hours  will  cause  us  sadness — 
Stay  with  us  yet ! 

Stay  with  us  yet !  oh!  life  at  sad  leave-taking ; 
The  time  has  come  too  soon  to  pay  thy  debt ; 
Oh  !  take  not  now  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking — 
Stay  with  us  yet ! 

The  title,  "  From  Dawn  to  Dusk,"  would  naturally 
lead  one  to  suppose  that  all  of  the  poems  contained 
in  the  book  are  of  a  serious  cast,  but  this  is  not  the 
case.  Many  of  them  are  of  a  highly  humorous  char- 
acter and  sparkle  with  buoyant  mirth.  Such  poems 
as  "  Panel  and  Plaque  and  Tile,"  "  Unless  I  Change 
My  Mind,"  "  Something  in  the  Air,"  "Next,"  and 
various  others,  are  thoroughly  enjoyable,  and  prove 
that  their  author's  muse  can  be  exceedingly  humor- 
ous on  occasion.  One  of  these  I  quote  as  a  good 
illustration  of  Mr.  MacCulloch's  powers  in  this 
direction  : 


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HI  W  TER   MA  C  CUL  L  OCH. 


171 


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NEXT ! 

See  how  eagerly  we  scan  the  papers  for  the  news,  sir  ; 
Murders,  scandals,  accidents,  in  numbers  to  confuse,  sir. 
Is  that  great  sensation's  fever-heat  now  growing  cold,  sir  ? 
Then,  the  latest  wonder  must  be  surely  nine  days  old,  sir. 
Next,  sir !  Next,  sir  !    That's  the  people's  text,  sir ; 
When  they've  drained  one  subject  dry,  they're  ready  for 
the  next,  sir ! 

See  her  sweet,  bewitching  air,  so  lately  very  sad,  sir ; 
Having  duly  mourned,  she  now  may  be  a  little  glad,  sir. 
Well  she  knows  the  joys  and  woes  that  go  with  wedded 

life,  sir  ; 
And  she  thinks  it  proper  form  again  to  be  a  wife,  sir. 
Next,  sir  !  Next,  sir  !    That's  the  widow's  text,  sir  ; 
Since  she  has  disposed  of  one,  she's  ready  for  the  next, 

sir ! 

See  how  mournfully  he  looks,  how  s.idly  shakes  his  head, 

sir. 
As  he  dwells  upon  the  days  that  have  forever  fled,  sir. 
Hopes  and  fears  have  vanished  quite,  the  vital  fire  burns 

low,  sir  ; 
Life's  play  ends,  the  curtain  falls,  he  must  prepare  to  go, 

sir. 
Next,  sir !  Next,  sir!    That's  the  old  man's  text,  sir ; 
Since  this  life  is  leaving  him,  he's  looking  for  the  next, 

sir ! 

f 
See  the  miles  on  miles  of  men,  all  waiting  to  hurrah,  sir  * 

Such  a  soul-inspiring  sight  what  mortal  ever  saw,  sir? 

Yet  his  predecessor  rode  between  these  very  men,  sir ; 

So  will  his  successor  ride  that  very  route  again,  sir ! 

Next,  sir  !  Next,  sir  !     That's  the  masses'  text,  sir  ; 

Since  they  have  disposed  of  one,  they're  ready   for  the 

next,  sir  ! 


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33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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See  the  tiny,  toddling  child,  who  vainly  tries  to  lisp,  sir  ; 
Soon  will  those  small  feet  begin  to  chase  life's  will-'o-the- 

wisp,  sir. 
Hopes  will  npen  one  by  one,  and  lure  him  on  and  on,  sir ; 
Never  stopping  once  to  rest  until  the  last  is  gone,  sir. 
Next,  sir !  Next,  sir !    That's  the  golden  text,  sir ; 
'Tis  not  what  we  had  or  have,  but  what  we  will  have  next, 

sir! 

Hunter  MacCulloch  is  a  native  of  Glasgow,  Scot- 
land. He  was  born  on  the  twenty-second  of  October, 
1847.  "One  of  the  mementoes  of  bygone  days 
which  I  especially  cherish,"  writes  Mr.  MacCulloch, 
"is  my  mother's  marriage  'lines,'  as  the  marriage 
certificate  was  called.  This  certificate  contains  the 
signature  of  the  original  of  Burns's  '  Dr.  Hornbook.' 
la  1785  John  Wilson  was  the  schoolmaster  of  Tar- 
bolton  parish,  and  also  set  up  a  shop  of  grocery 
goods.  On  the  bottom  of  his  shop-bills  he  adver- 
tised that  advice  would  be  given  in  common  disor- 
ders at  the  shop,  gratis.  Burns  was  at  a  masonic 
meeting  in  Tarbolton,  and  the  dominie's  display  of 
medical  knowledge  was  the  spur  that  produced  the 
humorous  and  satirical  '  Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook. ' 
Burns's  brother,  Gilbert,  shared  the  poet's  prejudice 
anent  the  luckless  John  Wilson,  wlio  had  the  cheek 
to  be  schoolmaster,  groceryman,  druggist  and  doc- 
tor. But  Robert  Chambers  writes  that  *  Hornbook ' 
was  a  man  of  ability  and  education  ;  and  he  points 
out  that  Wilson's  service  as  a  dispenser  of  medicines 
must  have  been  useful,  as  there  was  no  doctor  iti  the 
village  or  within  many  miles  of  it.     John  Wilson 


HUN  TER   MA C  CULL  OCH. 


173 


had  a  dispute  about  salary  with  the  heritors  and  left 
for  Glasgow,  where  he  rose  to  be  session  clerk  of  the 
Gorbals,  during  which  period  he  signed  my  parents' 
marriage  lines."  In  185 1  the  MacCulloch  family 
decided  to  emigrate  to  the  United  States,  and  finally 
settled  in  Philadelphia,  where  the  subject  of  our 
sketch  lived  for  upwards  of  forty  years.  He  may 
therefore  lay  claim  to  the  title  of  a  Philadelphia 
poet.  He  received  his  education  at  the  public 
schools,  and  then  went  to  learn  the  trade  of  a  ma- 
chinist. This  occupation,  however,  hardly  agreed 
with  his  tastes.  In  a  shoit  time  he  withdrew  from 
it,  and  entered  mercantile  life  with  Mr.  William 
Tiller,  an  importer  of  fancy  goods,  and  at  the  age 
of  twenty-one  he  began  business  on  his  own  account 
as  a  wholesale  dealer  in  the  same  line.  In  1873  he 
married,  His  wife,  a  pleasant  and  intelligent  wom- 
an— Fannie  Windsor — is  a  native  of  Bath,  England. 

While  still  in  business,  Mr.  MacCulloch  projected 
the  Philadelptiia  Philosophical  Association  (in  1871), 
which  modestly  made  all  knowledge  its  province. 
Professor  John  Fiske,  of  Harvard  College,  at  that 
time  was  one  of  its  associate  members,  and  letters  of 
encouragement  were  received  from  Herbert  Spen- 
cer, Charles  Darwin,  John  Tyndall,  John  Stuart 
Mill,  and  George  Henry  Lewes.  In  1878,  Mr.  Mac- 
Culloch classified  and  catalogued  the  books  of  the 
library  of  the  Spring  Garden  Institute.  In  1881  he 
was  engaged  by  Messrs.  Strawbridge  &  Clothier,  of 
Philadelphia,   to  edit  a  household  magazine,   to  be 


^4 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


W. 


published  in  connection  with  their  business.  This 
publication  continued  in  his  editorial  care  until  the 
beginning  of  1891,  when  the  firm  decided  to  discon- 
tinue its  publication.  Thereupon  he  came  to  Brook- 
lyn. For  a  time  he  was  the  news-editor  of  the  New 
York  Witness^  and  at  present  he  fills  an  important 
position  on  the  staff  of  the  Brooklyn  Times.  Further 
particulars  of  his  literary  work  may  be  gathered 
from  the  following  letter,  addressed  by  request  to 
the  writer : 

"I  am  the  author  of  a  drama  called  'Amour,' 
which  has  been  produced  in  Philadelphia  and  in 
Baltimore.  I  have  written  an  opera,  the  music  for 
which  was  composed  by  the  veteran  impresario,  Max 
Maretzek  ;  but  it  has  not  yet  been  produced.  I 
have  several  dramatic  pieces  ready  for  production, 
but  I  have  not  as  yet  found  the  people  that  they  will 
suit.  Not  being  a  playwright  by  profession,  I  can- 
not give  the  time  necessary  to  place  my  work,  and  I 
have  not  yet  determined  upon  a  manager  to  take 
charge  of  my  dramatic  affairs. 

"My  publications  are  these.  'Dredged  Up,'  a 
pseudo-scientific  sketch,  issued  in  pamphlet  form,  in 
1879,  and  for  many  years  out  of  print.  '  How  I 
Made  Money  at  Home, '  purporting  to  be  written  by 
John's  wife,  and  being  a  series  of  ways  for  women 
to  make  money  in  home  industries.  Although  but 
an  eighty-page  pamphlet,  it  received  longer  press 
notices  than  many  royal  octavos  bound  in  cloth  can 
boast  of.     In  1886,  I  made  a  selection  from  poems 


HUNTER   MAC  CULLOCH. 


'75 


of  mine  that  had  already  appeared  in  magazines  and 
newspapers.  It  was  entitled  *  From  Dawn  to  Dusk. ' 
Being  a  Scot  and  able  to  versify,  it  was  inevitable 
that  I  should  write  songs.  J.  E.  Ditson  &  Co.,  of 
Philadelphia,  publish  a  cantata  of  mine  called  '  The 
Earth  is  a  Merry-go-round.'  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co., 
of  Boston,  publish  an  operetta  of  mine,  called  *  Wed- 
ding Cakes.*  Besides  these,  I  have  written  a  num- 
ber of  songs  that  have  been  set  to  music  ;  among 
the  composers  I  name  Ebenezer  Prout,  of  Londor., 
and  Hugh  A.  Clarke,  of  Philadelphia,  both  writers 
of  works  on  harmony  ;  John  Phillip  Sousa,  the 
bandmaster  ;  Arthur  Foote,  of  Boston  ;  Simon  Has- 
sler  and  William  Stobbe,  leaders  of  orchestras  in 
Philadelphia  ;  Charlton  F.  Speer,  of  London  ;  Max 
Maretzek,  H.  E.  Danks,  A.  Rosewig,  Fred  Baker, 
Frank  Armstrong,  A.  Sinzheimer,  George  C.  Bigler, 
and  the  well-known  blind  composer,  AdamGeibel." 

In  connection  with  the  remark  that  Mr.  MacCul- 
loch  is  a  Scot,  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  quote 
here  his  now  famous  poem  on  Robert  Burns,  entitled 
*'  Dinna  Forget."  It  is  a  poem  of  decided  merit  and 
is  frequently  printed  by  the  Scottish  press  about 
January  25 — the  birthday  of  '*  Scotia's  Darling 
Poet."  It  also  occupies  a  prominent  place  in 
"  Round  Burns's  Grave, "  a  collection  of  the  finest 
poems  which  have  been  written  on  or  about  Burns, 
and  recently  published  by  Alexander  Gardner,  of 
Paisley. 


! 


176 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


ii"; 


Ifil. 


I 


DINNA  FORGET. 

Forget  that  time  has  moved  the  world  away 
Six  generations  from  Auld  Scotia's  day, 
Whereon  she  sang  by  mouth  of  Minstrel  Burns 
Sweet  songs  and  true,  to  which  the  heart  still  turns ; 
Forget  the  miracles  that  man  has  wrought, 
The  incarnations  of  immortal  thought — 
The  steam-winged  village  o'er  the  railway  whirled, 
The  electric  voice  that  clicks  across  the  world, 
The  magic  trumpet  that  o'erreaches  space. 
Brings  voice  to  voice,  when  face  is  far  from  face  ; 
Forget  the  wonders  that  the  school  child  learns, 
The  better  to  hear  the  singing  preacher,  Bums. 

O,  gifted  soul !  to  Scottish  hearts  how  dear  \ 
Whose  stirring  strains  sound  earnest  and  sincere  ; 
Who  now  strikes  up  the  rant  and  now  the  Psalm ; 
Now  sobs  with  Mary,  and  roars  out  iu  Tam ; 
Whose  amber  wit  surrounds  the  homeless  Mouse, 
And  gives  to  it  an  everlasting  house  ; 
Whose  humble  Cotter,  with  his  simple  heart. 
Now  sits  exalted  in  a  niche  apart ; 
Who  caught  the  Jolly  Beggars  in  the  act, 
And  made  silk  purse  of  that  sow's  ear  of  fact ; 
Whose  songs  were  words  and  music  at  their  birth, 
And  voice  our  glory,  sorrow,  love  and  mirth. 
O,  sterling  soul !  whose  living  words  inspire  ; 
Too  great  to  play  buffoon  for  lord  or  squire ; 
Who  cared  no  more  for  New  Light  than  for  Old ; 
Who  in  the  cause  of  truth  was  rash,  but  bold ; 
Whose  faith  embraced  the  brotherhood  of  man ; 
Who  lived  and  died  a  true  republican. 

Dinna  forget,  though  Burns  is  made  a  text 

On  which  the  elect  of  this  world  and  the  next — 


I 


HUNTER   MAC  CULLOCH. 


177 


The  rich  and  righteous — now  delight  to  dwell, 
They  come  unbidden  to  the  poet's  well. 
Puir  folks  alone  are  Burn's  rightful  heirs ! 
For  them  he  sings,  his  heart  and  soul  are  theirs  ; 
Their  customs,  habits,  manners,  loves,  hopes,  joys. 
The  warp  and  woof  his  master  hand  employs. 
Dinna  forget,  for  all  that  folks  now  say, 
When  Bums,  the  bard,  was  living  out  his  day. 
The  guinea  stamp  did  not  make  current  gold 
Of  the  precious  ingots  from  his  mind's  rare  mold. 
Save  for  a  nine-days'  masquerade  of  p-jwer. 
The  freak,  the  fad,  the  fancy  of  the  hour ; 
An  unco  for  the  Caledonian  Hunt — 
Of  rough  adversity  he  bore  the  brunt. 
They  entertained  no  angel  in  his  case, 
But  opened  the  door  to  shut  it  in  his  face  ! 
Dinna  forget,  were  Burns  this  day  alive. 
At  his  crack  trade  of  critic  he  would  thrive ; 
From  Dr.  Hornbooks  their  pretensions  strip  ; 
The  Holy  Willies  scourge  with  satire's  whip  ; 
The  wealthy  "  dunderpates"  would  finely  scorn 
And  learn  anew  that  "  man  was  made  to  mourn." 
Dinna  forget,  were  Burns  alive  this  day, 
With  these  same  bitter  things  to  sing  and  say. 
He  still  v/ould  'near  the  unco-guid's  reproof. 
He  still  would  see  the  gentry  stand  aloof ; 
And,  blown  about  by  pride  and  passion's  breath, 
Would  reach  his  heart's  desire — after  death  ! 
Dinna  forget  that  Burns  could  not  escape 
The  fate  that  follows  us  in  many  a  shape  ; 
That  which  he  was  he  was,  in  sheer  despite 
Of  all  our  systems'  rules  of  wrong  and  right. 
Dinna  forget,  no  man  can  master  fate, 
Howe'er  so  wise  or  witty,  learned  or  great, 
And  Scotia's  bard  was  human  to  the  core  ; 
He  lived  and  died  as  Burns — no  less,  no  more. 


^ 


I 
m 


■i 


h 


HI 


tii 


irs 


.i  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


The  Scot  to  whom  the  world  sends  greeting, 
The  bard  we  weary  not  repeating — 
The  Burns  whose  star  is  fixed,  unfleeting 

In  heaven  set ; 
The  man  with  Heart  for  puir  folk  beating — 

Dinna  forget  ! 

Another  poem  by  Mr.  MacCulloch  on  Robert 
Burns  appeared  in  June,  1896,  and  at  once  became 
popup  r  with  the  masses.  It  is  one  of  the  finest 
poems  on  the  pi)et  that  has  ever  appeared,  and  it  is 
the  longest  poem  on  the  subject  in  existence.  The 
Brooklyn  Times  in  reviewing-  it  said: 

**The  near  approach  of  the  centennial  anniver- 
sary of  the  death  of  Robert  Burns  gives  a  timely 
interest  to  the  centenary  ode  dedicated  to  the  Scot- 
tish bard  by  Hunter  MacCulloch,  and  published  by 
the  Rose  and  Thistle  Publishing  Company,  430  Van 
Buren  street,  this  city.  Hunter  MacCulloch  has 
won  a  worthy  place  for  himself  among  Scottish- 
American  poets,  but  he  has  never  done  worthier 
work  than  in  this  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  great 
chief  of  'the  bardie  clan.'  He  enters  into  the  true 
spirit  of  the  ploughman  poet,  in  all  his  moods, 
sturdy,  passionate  and  tender,  reverent  to  true 
authority  yet  independent  and  defiant  of  unbased 
assumption.  It  is  no  easy  task  that  he  essays  in  a 
poem  that  must  of  necessity  be  at  once  biographical, 
critical,  didactic  and  sympathetic,  but  his  flight  is 
steady  and  sustained,  never  descending  in  common- 
place, and  frequently  soaring  to  the  serene  heights 


HUNTER   MAC  CdLLOC/f. 


179 


$ 


1 


where  the  skylark  sings.  It  would  be  unjust  to  the 
poet  to  quote  too  extensively  from  an  ode  which 
every  lover  of  Burns  and  of  poetry  should  make  his 
own,  but  a  few  lines  may  be  properly  transcribed  to 
show  the  spirit  in  which  MacCulloch  approaches  his 
theme.  This,  in  regard  to  the  dark  Dumfries  days, 
will  do  for  an  example: 

Since  from  the  captive  bird 
Delicious  strains  of  melody  are  heard  ; 

In  life's  dark  days,  from  out  his  spirit's  prison 
The  peasant  poet's  choicest  songs  have  risen. 
From  carking  care  and  grief, 

From  torturing  thoughts  that  throng, 
He  snatches  sweet  relief 

In  swallow-flights  of  song. 


O  singer  sweet !  whose  rustic  voice  endears, 
In  nature's  college  bred  for  thirty  years. 

His  genuine  genius  never  plays  a  part. 
No  heresay  his ;  he  sang  whereof  he  knew ; 

Nature  and  truth  his  themes  to  stir  the  heart; 
His  fragrant  flowers  are  yet  wet  with  the  dew ; 
He  knew  the  people's  language,  feeling,  thought ; 

Their  native  nobleness  to  him  was  dear ; 
'Twas  for  his  kin,  the  people,  that  he  wrought 

Unto  his  latest  year, 
Their  own  true  songs,  rich,  racy  and  sincere. 


"The  typography  of  the  little  volume  is  of  a  high 
order,  and  the  poem  is  illustrated  with  a  fine  por- 
trait of  Burns  and  engravings  of  scenes  identified 
with  his  life  and  works." 


i-V 


1 1 


I 


/.So 


/  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Too  much  cannot  be  said  in  connection  with  Mr. 
MacCulloch's  powers  as  a  lyrical  poet.  There  is 
something  sweet  and  delicate  and  melodious  in  his 
songs,  while,  in  addition,  they  are  poetical  in  spirit, 
tender  in  expression  and  full  of  deep  feeling. 
Among  the  best  are  "The  Miller's  Son,"  *' My 
Little  Bird,"  "After  All,"  "Come  vSail  With  Me," 
"Song  of  the  Senses,"  "Song  of  the  Seasons," 
"Love's  Reveille,"  "A  Madrigal,"  Sweet  Thoughts 
of  Thee,"  "  Here  We  Go!"  "  The  Parting  Toast"  and 
"  Down  the  Green  Lane." 

Mr.  MacCuUoch  is  one  of  the  most  unassuming  of 
men.  He  has  many  friends,  literary  and  otherwise, 
and  he  is  ever  ready  to  lend  a  helping  hand  in  a 
good  cause.  "  He  is  a  member  of  the  American 
Authors'  Guild."  "The  Writers'  Club  of  Brooklyn" 
and  of  Clan  McDonald,  a  society  of  Scotsmen  in 
Brooklyn,  which  numbers  among  its  members  such 
influential  men  as  Walter  Scott,  Jr.,  Dr.  Peter  Scott, 
the  Hon.  Wallace  Bruce,  Duncan  MacGregor  Crerar, 
the  well-known  Scottish  poet,  Peter  Ross,  LL.  D., 
Prof.  John  Tagg,  Walter  Bruce,  Charles  H.  Go  van 
and  various  others.  The  mention  of  Clan  Mc- 
Donald reminds  me  of  a  very  excellent  song  on  the 
"Thistle"  which  Mr.  MacCuUoch  recently  composed 
and  dedicated  to  the  clan.  It  has  since  become  very 
popular  with  Scottish  societies,  both  in  the  States  and 
Canada.  With  it  I  will  now  conclude  this  brief  tri- 
bute to  a  very  worthy  and  talented  man. 


1^ 


111': 


HUNTER   MAC  CUL LOCH. 


/St 


THK  THISTLE. 

Loyally  dedicated  to  Clan  Mcdonald  by 

its  bard,  Hunter  MacCulloch. 

(Air:   "Tullochgorum.") 

Let  others  worth  and  beauty  see 
In  shamrock,  rose  or  fleur  de  lis, 
And  raise  to  it  the  joyful  glee, 

Or  pen  a  la;."^  epistle  : 
The  rough  and  hardy  flower  I  sing — 

Rough  and  hardy,  rough  and  hardy — 
The  rough  and  hardy  flower  I  sing 

Wi'  admonition  bristles. 
The  rough  and  hardy  flower  I  sing 
Is  not  a  barefit,  chittering  thing, 
But  cries  '*  Talc'  tent !  "  to  clown  or  king- 

Auld  Scotia's  hardy  thrissle. 

While  royal  purple  flowers  it  flaunts, 

Its  true  democracy  it  vaunts  ; 

Nae  weaking  it  frae  hothouse  haunts, 

A'  fushionless  an'  gristle  ! 
But  strong  and  sturdy  see  it  stand — 

Strong  and  sturdy,  strong  and  sturdy — 
But  strong  and  sturdy  see  it  stand 

Wi'  keenly  sharpened  missle : 
But  strong  and  sturdy  see  it  stand 
The  picket  o'  that  gallant  band. 
The  guardian  o'  my  native  land — 

Auld  Scotia's  trusty  thrissle  ! 


And  when  its  life  has  had  its  dav, 
Its  day  o'  wark  and  little  play, 
On  down-winged  seed  it  floats  away, 
Like  laverock,  dove  or  missel : 


n 


/S^ 


^/  CLUSTER  OF  rOETS. 


A'  blithe  and  cheery  like  a  sang — 

Blithe  an<l  cheery,  blithe  and  cheery — 
A'  blithe  and  cheery  like  a  song 

We  whiles  may  sing  or  whistle. 
A'  blithe  and  cheery  like  a  sang 
Whereat  ten  thousan'  memories  thrang, 
Thereby  Aiild  Scotia's  fame  prolang — 

A  stubborn,  hardy  thris-sle  ! 


BENJAMIN   F.   LEGGETT,   PH.  D. 


Some  time  r^o  it  ^vas  my  ^^  >d  fortune  to  ])ur'jhase  a 
dainty  little  volume  entitled  '  A  Sheaf  of  Sonj^/'  b}- 
Benjamin  F.  Lc^^j^ett,  P!  .  D. ,  authnr  of  **A  Tramp 
Through  Switzerland,'  etc.  I  l.ad  never  heard  of 
the  volume  previous  to  this,  hut  I  have  since  spent 
many  happy  hours  lin^eriug  over  its  pages.  It 
contains  a  large  number  of  choice  and  very  excellent 
poems,  many  of  which  reveal  a  wonderful  wealth  of 
poetical  thoughts  and  expressions.  Indeed,  to  use 
the  language  of  an  eminent  critic  in  reviewing 
another  volume  of  poetry:  '*  Here  are  not  only  the 
germs  of  true  poetry,  but  the  bud,  the  blossom  and 
the  very  flower  of  song,"  and  I  recently  read  a  re- 
view of  the  book  in  the  Troy  Daily  Times,  in  which 
the  reviewer  voices  my  own  sentiments  when  he  says; 
**  These  poems  seem  to  have  bubbled  out  of  the 
author's  heart  and  fancy  under  the  inspiration  of  the 
ordinary  incidents  of  the  tranquil  life  of  a  scholar 
and  sympathetic  observer  of  men  and  events.  It  is 
evident  that  the  poet  never  writes  for  the  mere  pur- 
pose of  rhyming;  he  has  something  worth  saying, 
and  then  utters  n  in  simple  language,  marching  to  a 
rhythm  that  never  falters.  Many  of  these  poems 
are  especially  delightful  for  the  glimpses  of  nature 
which   they   afford.     The  prevailing  tone  bespeaks 


Ill 


ir 

hi 

A' 
If'*' 


n 


!  I 


I 


/84 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POFTS. 


calmness,  reflection,  sympathy  with  nature,  gentle- 
ness of  spirit,  hope,  and  a  reverential  regard  for 
what  is  pure,  truthful  and  noble." 

One  of  the  first  poems  that  attracted  my  attention 
on  opening  the  volume  was  the  following: 

CONSIDER  THE  LIUES. 

Out  of  the  (lust  the  lilies  spring, 

Up  from  the  blackest  mould, 
Touched  by  the  sunbeam's  flaming  wing 

They  stand  in  pearl  and  gold. 


illii 


Never  a  king  on  his  gilded  throne 

Arrayed  in  Jewels  rare, 
With  half  the  princely  glory  shone 

The  royal  lilies  wear. 

Out  of  the  dust  their  beauty  gleams 

Only  a  summer's  day, 
Mocking  the  pride  of  human  dreams 

With  royalest  array : 

Nor  toil,  nor  spin  for  robes  they  wear, — 

Under  his  hand  they  grow, 
Beyond  all  beauty  of  compare 

And  only  bloom  and  blow. 

Why  take  ye  thought ; — the  Master's  word- 

For  robes  that  fade  and  fall  ? 
Alike  he  cares  for  flower  and  bird, 

Are  ye  not  more  than  all  ? 


llliiii 


BENJAMIN  F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


'85 


More  than  the  lilies'  royal  worth, 

More  than  her  robes  of  gold, 
The  endless  years  of  another  birth 

After  our  dream  is  told. 

Out  of  the  dust  and  of  the  dust, 

Akin  the  soulless  clod, 
We  climb  by  the  rounds  of  faith  and  trust 

To  the  endless  life  of  God. 


** Truly,"  I  said  .Gn  reading  this  poem  over  a 
second  time,  "  the  man  who  penned  these  lines  is 
endowed  with  a  high  conception  of  the  beauty  and 
spirit  of  true  poetry,"  and  a  fuller  acquaintance  with 
the  Doctor's  writings  has  convinced  me  that  he  is 
deserving  of  a  high  place  among  our  prominent 
poets. 

His  muse  is  healthy,  vigorous  and  inspiring.  He 
writes  with  practical  skill,  ability  and  good  taste, 
every  line  being  smooth  and  pure  and  beautiful ;  and 
while  it  is  in  his  longest  poems  that  his  talents  are 
displayed  to  the  best  advantage,  still,  all  of  his 
shorter  pieces  have  the  sound  of  true  poetry  and 
proclaim  themselves  the  work  of  a  genuine  poet. 
Look  for  a  moment  at  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of 
the  following: 

AS  A  UTTLE  CHILD. 

What  a  charm  is  in  the  story 

From  the  sacred  Syrian  land, 
How  one  day  they  thronged  the  Master, 

Crowding  close  on  either  hand  ; 


i86 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


I, 


W.I 


How  the  sick  were  healed  and  heartened, 
What  sweet  peace  came  down  to  them 

Who  received  his  words  of  welcome, 
Or  but  touched  His  garments'  hem. 

There  they  came,  the  sad  and  weary. 

Dusty,  footsore,  halt  and  lame, 
With  the  palsied  borne  on  couches, 

For  afar  had  spread  His  fame ; 
And  the  blind  ones  knew  the  gladness 

Of  the  summer's  sheen  and  shine, 
For  the  eyes  long  held  in  shadow 

Felt  the  touch  of  the  Dixine. 

Hither  came  the  dark-eyed  mothers 

Full  of  tender,  loving  care, 
For  the  Master's  smile  and  blessing 

Laid  on  childhood's  sunny  hair. 
When  one  harshly,  half  in  anger, 

Chid  the  happy,  childish  throng — 
Bade  them  cease  their  idle  coming. 

Hush  the  prattling,  infant  song. 

Nay,  but  suffer  them — the  children — 

Said  the  Man  of  Galilee, 
And  forbid  them  not  when  coming 

In  their  innocence  to  Me  ; 
For  of  such  is  heaven's  kingdom — 

And  He  looked  on  them  and  smiled, 
While  the  stern  rebukers  trembled 

In  the  balance  with  a  child. 


Once  again  they  queried  blindly 
Of  the  honors  He  would  bring — 

Which  of  them  should  be  the  greatest 
In  the  Kingdom  of  their  King  ? 


BENJAMIN  F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


187 


Then  again  the  s*in.e  sweet  story 

From  the  infant  on  His  knee, 
How  the  chiefest  in  His  kingdom 

As  a  little  child  must  be. 

Dr.  Leggett's  sonnets  are  also  well  worthy  of 
mention,  many  of  them  being  very  much  above  the 
average  of  such  compositions  in  tone  and  merit. 
Those  entitled,  ''Passing  the  Light,"  "To  Oliver 
Wendell  Homes,"  "At  Dawn,"  "Keats'  Grave," 
"Orion,"  and  some  others,  are  veiy  fine  and  show 
that  the  Doctor  has  a  special  talent  for  this  partic- 
ular style  of  composition.     I  append  two  specimens: 

ON  A  FIR  CONE   FROM   BAYARD    TAILOR'S    GRAVE. 

TO  J.   G.   W. 

When  last  the  Aututnn's  changeful  glory  gave 
To  field  and  woodlan<l  all  its  splendor  rare, 
While  dreamful  beauty  melted  through  the  air, 

This  fragrant  cone  dropped  on  the  poet's  grave. 

And  now  while  storms  of  winter  wildly  rave, 
T  hear  again  the  rhythm  sweet  and  strong 
1  hat  trembled  through  the  fir-tree's  solemn  song 

As  in  its  shade  I  saw  its  branches  wave. 

And  still  it  sings  of  weary  journeys  done. 
Of  northern  pines  and  drooping  tropic  palms. 

Of  desert  sands  and  snowy  summits  won, 
Of  mingled  storms  and  sunshine  and  of  calms. 

And  welcome  home  ! — a  lullaby  that  thrills 

The  listening  silence  of  his  native  hills  ! 

IN  SEPTEMBER. 

A  dreamful  Beauty — queen  of  tawny  hue — 
With  half  shut-eyes  looks  out  across  the  wold 


t'l  :l 


i88 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


In  drowsy  mood,  arrayed  in  russet  gold, 
And  quaffs  the  Mrine  the  rich  earth  pours  anew 
Prom  airy  beaker  tinct  with  amber  through  : 

The  golden-rods  like  listed  knights  of  old 

Wave  all  their  plumes  of  beauty  manifold, 
And  asters  swarm  where  honey-clover  blew  : 
Green-bladed  flags  the  lowland  meadows  throng, 

With  lifted  clubs  that  dare  the  dragon-fly  ; 
The  sharded  locust  shrills  insistent  song 

While  ghostly  thistle-down  goes  drifting  by ; 
A  dream  of  sound  the  hazy  crystal  fills 
From  runnel-threaded  wrinkle  of  the  hills. 

In  his  longer  poems,  however,  the  Doctor  has 
more  scope  in  which  to  work  out  his  ideas,  and  it  is 
in  these  poems  that  he  has  given  us  such  abundant 
proof  of  his  possessing  the  best  characteristics  of  a 
true  son  of  song.  **The  Ballad  of  the  King," 
*♦  Bums's  Birthday,"  "  The  Age  of  Gold,"  *'  Dickens 
In  Westminster  Abbey,"  **  Ravenswood,"  "A  Day 
Dream,"  "The  First  Decade,"  and  "A  Word  for 
Shakespeare,"  are  all  poems  of  great  beauty  and 
power,  and  they  will  be  read  and  admired  long  after 
their  author  has  laid  aside  his  pen  and  passed  to  his 
reward.  We  quote  the  last  named  poem  here,  more, 
however,  on  account  of  its  literary  character  than 
for  its  being  in  any  way  superior  either  in  construc- 
tion or  expression  to  the  others: 

A  WORD  FOR  SHAKESPEARE. 

When  hawthorn  hedges,  foaming  white, 
Were  sweet  with  mimic  snowing, 


BENJAMIN  F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


189 


He  first  beheld  the  April  light 
And  heard  the  Avon  flowing. 

Like  other  children,  then  as  now, 
The  olden  summers  found  him. 

He  laughed  and  cried  and  knit  his  brow, 
And  ruled  the  world  around  him  ! 

Still  was  he  wiser  than  they  knew — 
This  child,  the  straw-thatch  under. 

Whose  song  three  hundred  years  ago 
Yet  makes  the  wide  world  wonder ! 

A  child,  from  croon  of  cradle  hymn 

Above  him  in  his  slumbers, — 
A  youth,  along  the  Avon's  rim 

He  caught  his  tuneful  numbers. 

Full  poet-souled  the  shy  boy  grew 
To  manhood's  ripe  completeness ; 

What  Nature  taught  he  quickly  knew — 
Her  wondrous  lore  and  sweetness. 

The  years  so  fraught  with  weary  toil 
Were  gladdened  by  his  singing. 

For  well  he  heard  through  life's  turmoil 
Serenest  music  ringing : 

As  everywhere  the  world-wide  throng 
To-day  who  know  and  love  him. 

Through  his  can  hear  the  lark's  sweet  song. 
That  soared  and  sang  above  him. 

Where'er  he  turned  his  eager  feet. 
Her  smile  o'er  him  was  leaning, 

He  felt  the  heart  of  Natiure  beat, 
And  learned  its  hidden  meaning. 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


What  golden  wealth  from  her  he  brought — 

Her  heir  by  this  sweet  token — 
A  power  to  clothe  the  hidden  thought 

That  else  had  been  unspoken. 

What  marvel  that  the  race  to-day 

Toward  him  is  fondly  turning, 
Who  gave  its  hope  a  tongue  for  aye 

To  tell  its  deathless  yearning  ? 

All  changing  moods  of  being's  state, 

Life's  sad  or  sunny  fancies. 
The  smile  of  love,  the  scowl  of  hate, 

Affection's  sweet  romances. 

He  holds  embalmed  in  wondrous  art — 

A  lore  beyond  the  sages— 
And  wildest  passions  of  the  heart. 

The  tenderest  love-lit  pages. 

Grand  builder  in  the  realm  of  thought ! 

Through  his  wide-swinging  portals. 
Behold  the  fame  his  fancy  wrought, 

And  peopled  with  immortals  ! 

The  king  of  bards  he  stands  revealed, 

By  very  grace  of  giving, — 
What  hidden  founts  hath  he  unsealed. 

And  poured  for  all  the  living ! 

His  fame  and  song  ring  evermore 
Above  the  centuries'  thunders  ; 

Though  dead  three  hundred  years  and  more, 
Yet  still  the  wide-world  wonders  ! 


ayuaaMiai 


BENJAMIN  F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


191 


Dr.  Leggett  is  a  native  of  Chestertown,  Warren 
county,  N.  Y.,  where  he  was  bom  on  December  29, 
1834.  He  is  a  son  of  a  farmer,  brought  up  on  a 
farm,  and  this  he  says  is  what  makes  him  a  lover  of 
Nature  in  all  her  infinite  phases.  In  his  younger 
days  he  taught  school  and  nobly  worked  his  way 
through  college,  graduating  from  the  Wesleyan 
University  in  1863.  In  the  same  year  he  married 
Miss  Sarah  Shaw,  of  Troy,  N.  Y.  She  is  an  accom- 
plished and  congenial  lady,  possessing  rare  judgement 
and  fine  literary  taste.  They  have  one  child  living,  a 
daughter.  Miss  Fanny,  and  who  under  the  non  de 
plume  of  Marion  Kent  Douglass,  has  already  accomp- 
lished good  literary  work  and  gives  promise  of  mak- 
ing a  name  for  herself  in  the  near  future.  In  1875 
the  Doctor,  accompanied  by  his  family,  made  an  ex- 
tended tour  through  Europe,  visiting  Italy,  Switzer- 
land, Germany,  France,  England  and  Scotland. 
While  thus  traveling  he  acted  as  special  correspond- 
ent for  the  Troy  Daily  Times  and  his  articles  com- 
manded considerable  aitention  at  the  time,  being  full 
of  interesting  information,  notes,  etc.,  all  written  in 
a  crisp  and  masterly  style.  In  1888  he  published  his 
"Tramp  Through  Switzerland,"  a  work  which  has 
had  an  extensive  sale.  He  began  writing  in  his 
early  boyhood,  and  has  contributed  articles  on 
various  subjects  to  the  New  York  Tribune,  the  Liter- 
ary IVofld,  Zions  Herald,  Peterson's  New  Monthly 
Magazine:,  The  Golden  Age,  etc.  He  has  also  con- 
tributed to  Mrs.  Silsby's  "  Tributes  to  Shakespeare, " 


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CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


published  by  the  Messrs.  Harper  Brothers,  to 
"Burnsiana,"  published  by  Alexander  Gardner, 
Paisley,  Scotland;  and  to  Mrs.  Putnam's  ** Collection 
of  American  Poetry."  He  is  engaged  in  academic 
work  in  an  institution  of  his  own  at  Ward,  Deleware 
county.  Pa.  This  part  of  the  state  is  called  the 
Garden  county  of  Pennsylvania,  and  to  use  a  quota- 
tion from  one  of  Ralph  Shaw's  poems  : 

"  His  home  is  rural  set  with  open  fields 
And  bits  of  wood  and  meadow  and  repose." 

He  is  a  very  patriotic  gentleman  and  exhibits  this 
particular  quality  in  many  of  his  compositions.  One 
of  his  best  poems  in  this  respect  is  a  memorial  poem 
recited  at  the  Memorial  Service  at  Elam  and  Brandy- 
wine  cemeteries  on  the  thirtieth  of  May,  1893. 
We  quote  it  here : — 

MEMORIAL  POEM. 

Where  May  time  crowns  to-day  the  land 

With  summer's  song  and  gleam, 
And  spreads  her  bloom  with  lavish  hand 

Above  the  soldier's  dream, 
Amid  the  olden  harvest  shine 

The  battle  smoke  hung  low, 
And  veiled  the  slopes  of  Brandywine 

A  hundred  years  ago  ! 

These  hills  have  heard  the  cannon  peal, 

These  vales  the  bugle  blow. 
These  sunny  slopes  the  clash  of  steel, 

The  charge  of  haughty  foe ! 


BENJAMIN  F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


m 


These  flowers  may  wear  the  crimson  stains 

Caught  from  the  ruddy  wine, 
That  ebbed  from  Valor's  wounded  veins 

O'er  hills  of  Brandy  wine  ! 

How  well  they  fought  their  deeds  shall  tell- 

Those  sturdy  sons  of  yore — 
Columbia  guards  their  memory  well 

And  shall  forever  more  ; 
For  God  and  man,  and  Freedom's  cause, 

The  fireside's  cheerful  glow, 
For  equal  rights  and  equal  laws, 

A  hundred  years  ago  ! 

They  fought  and  fell,  but  grandly  won — 

No  martyr  dies  in  vain — 
In  Freedom's  cause  no  deed  is  done 

But  wins  eternal  gain  ; 
How  fair  Columbia's  walls  appear 

In  spite  of  alien  foe, 
For  Freedom  gained  her  birthright  here 

A  hundred  years  ago  ! 


O'er  land  and  se^  hei  banner  flew — 

A  constellated  flame — 
A  hundred  years  her  glory  grew, 

A  hundred  years  her  fame  ; 
Then  red  War  swept  the  clouded  land 

As  in  the  days  of  old. 
For  Treason  sought  with  bloody  hand 

To  pluck  her  crown  of  gold  ! 

Then  from  the  glow  of  warm  hearth  fires. 

With  battle  shout  and  song, 
Sprang  loyal  sons  of  loyal  sires. 

Four  hundred  thousand  strong ! 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


O'er  fields  of  blood  their  valor  swept, 

Led  on  by  bannered  stars — 
In  prison  pens  their  old  love  kept, 

And  gloried  in  their  scars  ! 

On  many  a  field  their  banners  fell — 

On  man)'  a  field  they  won. 
Till  bells  of  joy  rang  Treason's  knell 

And  War's  red  work  was  done  ! 
O  bravely  did  they  dare  and  well, 

Like  loyal  sires  of  yore, 
And  fields  like  (Gettysburg  may  tell 

Why  they  rettirn  no  more  ! 

While  May  time  with  her  roses  crowned, 

Spreads  wide  her  flowery  hem 
In  folds  of  bloom  above  each  mound, 

In  teuderest  love  of  them, 
We  too  may  spread  oar  blooms  twice  more 

Above  each  soldier's  grave. 
White  as  the  loyal  love  they  lx)re, 

Red  as  the  blood  they  gave  ! 

O  heroes  dead  for  Freedom's  sake  ; 

O  martyr  fame  that  grows ; 
No  more  the  bugle  call  shall  break 

Your  loyal  dream's  repose  ; 
Sleep  on,  in  peace,  immortal  band, 

Sweet  is  the  rest  ye  know, 
W^hile  over  all  our  ransomed  land 

The  stars  ye  saved  shall  glow  ! 

O  land  !  let  all  thy  bugles  blow 
Where  sleep  the  true  and  brave. 

And  train  forget-me-nots  to  grow- 
On  every  Union  grave ! 


BENJAMIN   F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


'95 


The  past  is  past,  War's  flags  are  furled 

Above  the  blooms  of  May, 
While  Peace,  white  winged,  above  the  world 

Enfolds  the  Blue  and  Grav  ! 


Anniversary  poems  are  generally  commonplace 
effusions.  They  serve  the  purpose  on  the  day  for 
which  they  were  composed  and  then  are  lost  si^ht  of. 
The  present  one,  however,  is  deserving  of  a  better 
fate,  and  in  the  writer's  opinion  it  will  live  and 
ultimately  take  its  place  among  the  best  of  its  kind. 
As  a  brief  species  of  the  sweet  songs  embodied  in  the 
Doctor's  book  we  quote  the  one  entitled  "A  Morn- 
ing Song."  It  will  be  seen  from  this  lyric  that  the 
author's  powers  as  a  song-writer  are  very  keen.  His 
language  is  also  melodious  and  sweet : 


O  fair  and  sweet  is  the  summer  mom — 
A  queen  in  her  beauty  crowne<l — 

A  mist  wreath  over  her  shoulders  flung 
With  pearls  and  diamonds  bound. 

So  softly  over  the  hills  she  came, 

As  still  as  the  roses  blow, 
The  valleys  asleep  heard  not  her  step, 

But  woke  at  her  smile  aglow. 


Her  presence  wore  such  a  queenly  grace 
That  the  shadows  gave  her  room. 

She  sweetened  the  air  with  her  dewy  breath. 
And  kissed  the  flowers  a-bloom. 


"^wr, — T 


iii 


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W   CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


So  the  clover-heads,  and  the  buttercups, 
And  the  daisies*  white-rayed  gold, 

With  the  royal  lilies  sweet  and  tall 
Her  treasure  and  blessing  hold. 

The  meadows  swept  by  her  garment's  hem 

Are  beaded  with  gems  of  dew, 
And  the  maple  leaves  for  joy  of  her 

Are  tremulous  through  and  through. 

O  brooding  peace  of  the  morning,  stay  ! 

Nor  swift  as  her  presence  fly. 
Sing  aye,  my  heart,  as  the  wild  birds  sing, 

While  the  sweet  n?orn  passes  by. 

"The  Sheaf  has  good  grain  in  it,"  wrote  the 
gentle  John  G.  Whittier  to  Dr.  Leggett,  and  this 
will  certainly  be  the  verdict  of  every  one  after 
glancing  through  the  little  volume.  For,  as  a  writer 
in  the  Christian  Leader  very  truly  says :  "  These  are 
indeed  beautiful  songs — songs  of  the  joyous  heart, 
songs  of  the  birds,  songs  of  the  morning  dawn, 
songs  of  sprightly  youth  and  mellow  age,  tribute 
songs  to  good  and  great  men,  lyrics  to  brave  soldiers 
and  fair  women,  songs  of  the  seasons,  odes  to  the 
ocean,  dirges  to  the  dying  year,  elegies  for  the 
mourner,  and  carols  for  the  wedding  day."  Here  is 
a  little  poem  which  the  late  Mr.  Thomas  C.  Latto 
addressed  to  Dr.  Leggett  after  reading  his  book : 


READING   "A  SHEAF  OF  SONG. 

Are  thae  the  gather'd  gowden  sheaves 
O'  some  Feck  band  ster  carlie, 


BENJAMIN   F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


197 


Wha  wyled  them  out  when  lootin'  down 

Amang  the  "  Rigs  o*  Barley  ?" 
And  as  his  lilt — a  canny  croon — 

Made  blytne  baith  lads  an'  lasses, 
Thocht  they  it  had  the  sough  an'  soun' 

O,  aire  that  o'  surpasses  ? 

It  was  na  Rab's — his  rhymin-mill 

He  had  nae  power  bequeathin' 
O,  Wardsworth,  Beattie,  Tannahill, 

It  seemed  the  gentler  breathin'  : 
The  "  dusky  glen  "  whaur  lassie  gaed 

To  meet  her  winsom  marrow, 
Or  "dowie  den,"  wi  birks  ourspread. 

Aside  the  "  Brass  o'  Yarrow." 

Great  tnakkars  a'  are  *'  wede  awa" — 

"  Flowers  o'  the  Forest  "  fadit ; 
If  chance  I  miss'd,  sae  be  the  fa' — 

My  bed  is  as  I  made  it. 
Ae  nightingale  pours  nicht  an'  day 

The  trills  that  never  weary  ; 
Yet  gowdspinks  are  on  ilka  spray, 

An'  linties  warblin'  cheery. 

In  1895  Dr.  Leggett  published  "An  Idyl  of  Lake 
George  and  Other  Poems,"  (Boston  T.  O.  Metcalf  & 
Co.)  and  the  contents  of  this  volume  fully  sustains 
the  high  reputation  of  the  author  as  a  poet.  In 
reviewing  the  book  in  The  Middlesex  Hearthstone  the 
Rev.  J.  H.  Earpsaid: 

"Although  Dr.  Leggett  has  traveled  extensively 
across  the  water,  yet  this  volume  is  evidently  the 
product  of  a  mind  which  dwells  upon  the  scenes  of 
his  nativity,  where  are 


■ 


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A   CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


M    li 


"  Afar  the  misty  mountains  piled  ; 

The  Adirondacks  soaring  free, 
The  dark  Green  ranges  lone  and  wild. 

The  Catskills  looking  toward  the  sea  :" 


(( 


When 


"  Far  off  the  dreamy  waters  lie, 
White  cascades  leap  in  snowy  foam  ; 

Lake  Champlain  mirrors  cloud  and  sky, 
The  Hudson  seeks  his  ocean  home." 

"  The  title  poem,  *'An  Idyl  of  Lake  George"  is 
in  the  nature  of  a  reverie. 

'*  A  charm  is  wrought  where  thoir  has  smiled 
And  fondly  turns  my  heart  to  thee." 

"As  one  who  is  at  peace  with  nature  he  lightly 
speeds  his  bark  canoe  across  the  deep,  inverted  skies, 
and  through  the  sweet  long  hours  holds  communion 
with  the  spirit  of  solitude  while 

"  The  shadows  sleep,  the  winds  are  still, 
The  wood-thrush  only  breathes  his  song." 

*•  While  he  muses  he  hears 

' '  Again  the  sound  of  quick  alarms ! 

The  smoke  of  battle  fills  the  glen, 
The  bugle  blast,  the  clash  of  arms. 

The  savage  deeds  of  savage  men  !" 

*'  But  all  that  passes  as  a  dream,  and  now,  where 
once  the  silent  sentries  stood, 

■  •'  The  wild  flowers  hang  above  their  sleep. 
Though  all  unmarked  each  hidden  mound." 


■RMMMM 


llllgll  III  III!    Ill   I 


BENJAMIN  F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


199 


"The  readers  of  Dr.  Leggett's  poems  will  at 
once  be  impressed  by  the  harmony  between  the 
rhythm  and  the  thought.  Among  the  shorter  poems 
should  be  especially  mentioned  "  Homeward  Bound," 
**The  Passing  of  Summer,"  **A  Morning  Prayer," 
"In  Slumber  Land,"  "In  Cana  of  Galilee,"  "In 
Autumn  Time,"  "Wood  Paths,"  and  "Through 
Fields  of  Corn."  The  author  is  especially  felicitous 
in  his  manner  of  throwing  a  perfect  picture  into  a 
line  or  two,  as  fcr  instance, 

"  The  holly-hock  is  idling  there— a  very  tramp  of  bloom." 

"And 

'*  And  Dandelions  starred  the  grass 
With  sandal  prints  of  spring." 

"And  again, 

'  Through  woven  tangle  of  *he  starry  bloom 
Whose  breeze-swung  censers  spill  a  rare  perfume." 

"He  brings  our  ears  very  near  to  the  heart  of 
nature  in  such  lines  as 


<< 


-lulled  by  music  of  the  waves'  low  song." 


"  Perhaps  one  of  Dr.  Leggett's  best  contributions 
to  poetry  will  consist  in  his  fi deity  to  Nature.  He 
never  misinterprets  her.  He  never  mistakes  her 
voice.  He  gives  us  a  fa'chful  description  of  the 
quiet  nook,  the  cool  .sh.iUows,    the  lofty  pines,  the 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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leaping,  laughing  cascade,  and  of  all  that  would 
contribute  to  our  thorough  enjoyment  when  we 
would  wish  to  turn  from  life's  busy  cares  to  a  day  of 
real  rest. " 

The  following  poems  from  "An  Idyl  of  Lake 
George,"  will  give  an  idea  of  the  sterling  beauty  and 
worth  of  the  Doctors  latest  productions : 

IN   AUTUMN-TIME. 

Up  the  winding  path  we  wandered 

By  the  maples  on  the  hill ; 
And  the  golden  waves  of  wheat 
Swept  the  valley  at  our  feet ; 
And  we  idly  dreamed  and  pondered 
While  upon  the  slope  we  wandered 

Through  the  Autumn's  lights  that  lingered  warm 
and  still. 

'Mid  the  trees  the  farm-house  gables 
Showed  above  the  winding  stream — 

Woodbine  climbed  the  walls  of  brown, 

Up  the  broad  roof  sloping  down — 

And  the  old  barn  and  the  stables — 

Swallows  nesting  in  the  gables — 
All  enfolded  in  the  silence  like  a  dream. 

Through  the  maple  branches  swaying 

Came  the  distant  thrushes'  song  ; 
And  the  red  leaves  whispered  low 
As  we  wandered  to  and  fro- 
Wondered  what  our  lips  were  saying 
In  the  shadow  of  their  swaying, 

While  the  airy  grace  of  Autumn  held  us  long. 


Ill  11 


:liiii 


BENJAMIN  F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


ioi 


How  the  fleeting  years  have  vanished 
Since  we  climbed  the  pasture  hill ! 

But  the  waving  fields  of  gold, 

Love  has  reaped  them  many  fold  ; 

Clouds  that  hid  the  blue  are  banished, 

And  though  olden  years  have  vanished. 
All  the  mellow  lights  of  Autumn  linger  still. 


IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS— 
(on  a  picture.) 

0  sunny  gleam  of  vanished  years  ; 
O  light  of  the  summer's  glow  ; 

How  many  a  faded  dream  appears 
Through  the  mists  of  long  ago  ! 

Fair  picture  wrought  of  the  golden  days ! 
As  a  wizard's  magic  glass 

1  hold  you  up  to  my  wistful  gaze 
While  trooping  visions  pass. 

The  white  clouds  over  the  meadows  swim. 
While  the  shadows  trample  through. 

The  daisies  creep  to  the  water's  rim. 
Or  nod  to  the  clover  blue. 


The  broad  pool  lies  like  a  mirror  fair, 

In  shadow  or  sun  agleam, 
And  the  fringing  woodlands  pictured  there 

Are  held  in  a  magic  dream. 

The  wild  duck  floats  on  its  waveless  breast. 

And  the  lily's  pearl  and  gold, 
And  the  pines  above  its  dreamless  rest 

Are  crooninf  the  songs  of  old. 


ii  I  ir  :i;!  I 


llll":"i!i 


^"lll.rili!!! 

Ill       II 


iiiill 


!1! 


!! 


1 


:i|if 


\m4 


I!! 


i  I! 


^2 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Afar  the  sound  of  the  bittern's  note 
From  the  reedy  shore  upsprings  ; 

The  cheery  cry  from  the  fisher's  throat 
That  follows  the  flash  of  wings. 

The  narrow  bridge  as  a  slender  line 

In  the  passing  vision  seems, 
Crossed  by  the  trail  of  the  homeward  kine 

And  a  sun-brown  boy  who  dreams. 

His  traps  are  there  by  the  shadowed  bay, 
Where  the  alders  fringe  the  shore, 

But  his  thoughts  have  wandered  far  away 
To  the  years  that  wait  before ! 

The  vision  fades  in  the  waning  day — 

A  mist  on  the  glass  appears — 
The  sunny  hair  of  the  boy  is  gray. 

And  touched  with  the  frost  of  years ! 

And  ever  and  on  his  dreams  have  run, 

I^  ever  by  fancy's  will. 
But  future  and  past  to-day  are  one, 

And  the  vision  lingers  still ! 

•'Dr.  Benjamin  F.  Leggett  is  a  genuine  poet," 
says  a  writer  in  Zion's  Herald^  "and  in  this  little  vol- 
ume he  has  made  a  contribution  worthy  to  occupy  a 
place  beside  the  productions  of  our  best  living 
authors.  In  the  '*  Idyl  of  Lake  George,"  every  line 
helps  to  show  forth  the  beauty  of  the  lake  and  its 
surroundings,  and  the  traditions  of  the  past  come  in 
to  vary  and  heighten  the  picture.     The  Adirondack 


'•";' 


BENJAMIN  F.    LEGGETT,    PH.  D. 


^03 


poems  tell  of  the  Summer  and  Autumn,  the  wood- 
path,  the  open  field  and  the  closed  forest,  the  moun- 
tain and  stream,  the  storm  without  and  the  fire  upon 
the  hearth  within.  *'The  City  of  Doom"  is  full  of 
exquisite  passages.  There  is  a  majesty  in  the  whole 
movement.  The  atmosphere  is  that  of  the  Roman 
world  with  an  outlook  into  all  the  ages.", 


■«!:,]  ! 


mm  W\ 


n 


I 


m 


I   ' 


'4 


r'l* 


JAMES  D.  LAW. 


The  Bonny  Woods  o'  Clova 

How  can  I  e'er  forget  ? 
I've  wander'd  far  but  never  seen 

The  equal  o'  them  yet. 
Frae  sunny  brae  to  shady  glen 
An'  burnie  singin'  doon  the  den — 
O'  ilka  nook  I  used  to  ken 

Within  the  Woods  o'  Clova ! 

The  Bonny  Woods  o'  Clova 
Look  doon  aboon  my  hame, 

Wee  village  wi'  a  charm  for  me 
Nae  ither  spot  can  claim. 

On  ilka  side  the  hills  arise 

Whaur  Nature  dons  her  fairest  guise, 

And  half  way  tow'ring  to  the  skies 
Are  seen  the  Woods  o*  Clova ! 

The  Bonny  Woods  o'  Clova ! 

The  langer  I'm  awa' 
Aye  dearer  still,  if  that  could  be, 

I  lo'e  them  ane  an'  a'. 
'Twas  there  my  musings  were  begun. 
There  first  my  rustic  rhymes  were  spun, 
And  my  dear  lass  was  woo'd  an'  won, 

Among  the  Woods  o'  Clova ! 

The  Bonny  Woods  o'  Clova ! 

At  times  my  he'rt  grows  sair 
When  thochts  come  in  my  heid  that  I 

May  never  view  them  main 


JAMES  D.    LAW. 


205 


i 


But  surely  Fate  will  be  sae  kin' 
As  bear  me  back  across  the  brine 
To  meet  the  frien's  o'  auld  lang  syne 
An'  see  the  Woods  o'  Clova  ! 


The  Bonny  Woods  o'  Clova, 

Forever  may  they  bide 
The  brawest  sicht  to  gaze  upon 

In  a'  the  country  side  ! 
Had  I  the  future  in  my  han' 
For  happier  days  I'd  never  plan 
Than  end  my  life  whaur  it  began — 

Beside  the  Woods  o'  Clova  ! 

So  sings  Mr.  James  D.  Law,  one  of  the  very  best 
of  modem  Scottish  poets,  in  one  of  the  many  delight- 
ful lyrical  pieces  included  in  his  well-known  book, 
"  Dreams  of  Hame  and  Other  Poems."  Mr.  Law  is 
a  comparatively  young  poet,  but  with  a  singularly 
sweet  and  pure  note  of  his  own  he  has  quietly  and 
surely  won  for  himself  the  respect  and  goodwill  of 
all  true  lovers  of  poetry,  and  he  has  touched  the 
Scottish  heart  so  deeply  that  his  writings  are  to  be 
found  and  are  treasured  in  every  nook  and  comer 
wherever  Scotsmen  abide.  It  is  not  left  for  the 
writer  to  predict  that  Mr.  Law  will  yet  make  a  name 
for  himself  in  the  poetical  world — he  has  aire?/!,, 
made  it.  What  a  wealth  of  poetic  fancy  and  imagi- 
nation does  he  posess  ?  His  writings  in  many  in- 
stances are  on  common,  every-day  topics,  but  they 
show  intelligence  and  culture,  taste  and  good  judg- 
ment.    Notwithstanding  his  extemporaneous  style 


206 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


he  is  a  most  careful  artist  and  never  allows  any  care- 
less work  to  pass  from  his  hands.  His  rhymes  are 
perfect,  his  rhythm  faultless,  his  diction  pure,  his 
warblings  sweet,  and  his  use  of  the  grand  old  Doric 
appropriate  and  commendable.  Indeed,  there  is  not 
a  poem  or  lyric  included  in  *' Dreams  o'  Hame," 
etc.,  that  does  not  prove  the  author  to  be  a  master 
poet  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  phrase. 

Many  an  evening  have  I  taken  up  his  handsome 
and  well  printed  book  and  gently  turned  over  the 
leaves  until  I  reached  the  forty-fifth  page,  when  I 
paused  to  join  him  in  singing  his  beautiful  Scottish 
version  of  the  First  Psalm.  In  spirit  I  have  played 
with  him  as  a  boy  at  '*The  Auld  Bow  Brig."  I 
have  in  imagination  taken  '*A  Flying  Trip"  with 
him  to  Scotland,  the  home  of  his  boyhood  and  of 
;nine.  With  him  I  have  enjoyed  "A  Nicht  wi' 
Bums,"  visited  the  now  famous  "Auld  Clay  Big- 
gin';" witnessed  the  "Unveiling  of  the  Statue  to 
the  National  Poet  at  Aberdeen  "  and  the  laying  of 
the  comer  stone  of  the  Philadelphia  New  Caledonian 
Club  House.  At  other  times  I  have  been  charmed 
and  delighted  with  his  "Few  words  to  Walt  Whit- 
man," his  "Epistle  to  Mr.  James  W.  R.  Collins," 
his  *  •  Petition  to  the  Queen  Regarding  the  Vacant 
Laureateship"  and  his  "Address  to  the  Author  of 
*  Press  Chips. '  "  I  have  mourned  with  him  over  the 
death  of  John  Shedden,  "  La  Teste,"  William  Mac- 
Lennan  and  others.  I  have  partaken  of  his  hospi- 
tality in  his  "Ain   Wee  Hame"   or  lingered   with 


JAMES  D,    LAW. 


207 


much  glee  over  his  humorous  effusions.  Again,  I 
have  frequently  passed  many  a  quiet  hour  moralizing 
with  him  in  his  serious,  and  in  many  instances, 
deeply  pathetic  poems.  All  things  considered,  Mr. 
Law  is  a  rare  specimen  of  a  true  poet,  and  his  is  a 
book  that  I  would  not  care  to  be  without.  Here  is 
a  humorous  poem  of  his  that  I  committed  to  memory 
long  ago.  It  shows  the  wonderful  command  that 
the  author  has  over  his  mother  tongue,  and  it  is 
quite  possible  that  I  may  have  acquired  a  liking  for 
it  on  this  account.  But  apart  from  this  fact,  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  quaint  philosophy  in  it,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  it  will  hold  its  own  with  others  of  its  class, 
for  many  years  to  come  : 


"TO  A  MOSQUITO." 

Ill-trickit  wickit  bizzin  beastie, 
Nae  langer  on  my  face  ye' 11  feast  ye  ! 
Sin'  noo  my  thoora-nail  I've  got  neist  ye 

Yer  banes  will  rattle  ! 
An'  troth  it's  time  I  should  arreist  ye 

An'  gar  ye  sattle  ! 

I'm  far  frae  sorry,  snip,  to  fin'  ye. 
An'  tho'  my  bluid  may  coorse  within  ye, 
Wi'  lattin'  aff  I'll  nae  begin  ye — 

That  wad  be  sport  ill ! 
For  while  the  cannibal  is  in  ye 
We  wad  assort  ill  ! 

I  dootna  but  ye'll  ca'  me  **  knave  ! " 
An'  ower  my  whunstane  rancour  rave  ; 
An'  fegs  !  I  maybe  misbehave, 


20S 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


But,  crater,  bless  ye 
I'll  get  my  sairin  o'  the  lave 
An'  never  miss  ye  ! 


4' 

:  f. 


•>„.  '? 


^i    ' 


i'. 


Ye  ken  it's  a'  yer  ain  misdoin' 
That  sent  me  aifter  you  pursuin'; 
Had  ye  been  less  intent  tatooin' 

Ye  micht  hae  seen 
The  ruthless  claws  that  wrocht  yer  ruin 

An'  dodged  atween  ! 

But  na !  ye  had  ta'en  nae  forecast, 
An'  frae  yer  feast  ye  wadna  fast ; 
Snug,  safe,  frae  ilka  by-gaun  blast 

Ye  thocht  yersel', 
Till  thud  !  the  fee  cam'  doon  at  last 

An'  broke  yer  spell  ! 

Nae  mair  I'll  nip  aneath  yer  nibbles ! 
Nae  mair  ye'll  bore  me  wi'  yer  gibbles ! 
Nae  mair  ye'll  draw  my  bluid  in  dribbles. 

Or  g'art  rin  cauld ! 
Ae  stammack  less  will  stress  my  stibbles, 

Ye  glutton  bauld ! 

But  'skeeter  !  thou  art  nabb'd  alane 
Frae  lots  o'  cronies — provin'  plain 
Mosquitoes'  schemes  like  those  o'  men 

Are  deep-laid  aye  ! 
Whatu*  ae  rogue  happens  to  be  ta'en 

A  score  win  by  ! 


Still  you're  weel  aff,  compared  wi'  me ! 
Yer  doom  is— jist  at  aince  to  dee  ! 
An',  forward  tho'  I  canna  see, 


JAMES  D.    LAW. 


»og 


I  guess  an'  fear, 
That  I  may  pine  neath  sic  as  thee 
For  ttiony  a  year  ! 

In  1892  Mr.  Law  published  through  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Gardner,  Paisley,  Scotland,  (the  well-known 
publisher  to  the  Queen)  his  *' Dreams  o'  Hame  and 
Other  Poems. "  For  a  book  of  poems  it  has  had  a 
wonderful  success,  the  entire  edition  of  1,000  copies 
being  now  almost  exhausted. 

Mr.  Law's  principal  poem,  and  the  one  which 
gives  the  title  to  his  book  is  *' A  Dream  o'  Hame." 
It  is  divided  into  two  parts,  historical  and  geographi- 
cal, and  is  the  poem  wherein  the  author's  true  merits 
are  seen  to  the  best  advantage.  As  a  poem  it  dis- 
plays beauty  and  power,  pathos  and  tenderness ;  it  is 
skillfully  constructed,  and,  in  addition  to  these  qual- 
ities, it  contains  many  striking  similes.  The  de- 
scriptions are  exceeding  graphic,  and  it  will  rank  in 
this  respect  with  the  best  descriptive  poems  of  the 
century.     The  following  is  an  extract  from  it : 

Noo  Phoebus*  spear  has  turned  adrift 
The  darklin'  cloods  that  thrang'd  the  lift ; 
The  hinmost  cock  has  vround  his  horn 
And  flegg'd  awa'  the  mists  o'  morn  ; 
The  fragrant  winds  aroon  me  blawn 
Hae  drench'd  wi'  dew  the  fiery  dawn. 
And  diamond  draps  in  clusters  row 
Prae  lika  blade  and  bush  and  bough. 

Aboon  wi'  girss  and  heather  hap 

Auld  Noth  uprears  his  Sphinx-like  Tap— 


IT 


2IO 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


The  watch-dog  o'  the  rock-bound  North, 
And  grandest  hill  ayont  the  Forth. 
Frae  Rhynie  couch'd  beside  its  paws 
I  start  to  dim'  the  tow'rin  wa's  : 
Aince  mair  I  pass  the  massive  rock 
That  bears  the  print  o'  Giant  Jock  ; 
Walk  roun'  the  Craig  o'  Clochmaloo, 
And  pechin'  pick  my  pathway  thro' 
The  breastworks  built  o'  birsl't  stanes 
That  dootless  hap  some  Royal  banes, 
Until  I  reach  the  Cnp  or  Cap 
That  croons  the  summit  o'  the  Tap 
And  kcps  the  dews  at  morn  and  e'en 
That  keeps  the  cone  for  ever  green  ! 


m- 


Lo,  what  a  cycloramic  view 
Is  spread  for  miles  before  me  noo ! 
What  wealth  o'  sea  and  hill  and  dale. 
Of  Highland  moor  and  Lowland  vale ; 
Of  streams  that  twine  like  siller  threids 
Thro'  mossy  haughs  and  grassy  meads  ; 
Of  roads  that  in  their  twists  and  turns 
I<ook  like  the  beds  o'  dried-up  burns ; 
What  gov\  'len  glints  o'  whinny  howes. 
Of  \  avin'  com  and  broomy  knowes  ; 
What  blink?  o'  castles  and  o'  kirks 
Embower'a  in  beeches  and  in  birks  ; 
O'  touns  that  flash  upon  the  sicht 
Like  stars  upon  a  cloudless  nicht ; 
O'  clachans,  steadin's,  crafts  and  cots, 
Ilk  wi'  their  little  kail-yard  plots — 
Oh  !  I  could  stand,  and  nae  be  loth, 
For  days  upon  the  Tap  o'  Noth, 
And  gaze  across  its  saucer-rim 
Till  sense  would  reel  and  sicht  grew  dim  ; 
And  ye  could  scour  auld  Scotland  o'er. 


JAMES  D.    LA  IV. 


2tt 


Yea  Britain  braid  itsel'  explore, 

^  nd  trudge  for  mony  a  month,  I  ween, 

To  match  me  sic  a  glorious  sc«me  ! 

Ben  Rinties  lonely  in  the  west 
Uprears  his  kingly  guardian  crest ; 
And  to  the  cast  is  stretch 'd  afar 
A  glen  without  a  peer  or  par — 
Strathbogie  wi'  its  fertile  haughs. 
Its  famous  aucht-and-forty  daughs, 
Immortalized  in  Scottish  lore, 
The  grand  old  Gordon  Latid  of  yore ! 


* 


On  mony  a  blood-stained  battle-plain 
Thy  stalwart  sons  have  held  their  ain 
When  from  the  mountains  of  the  North 
The  Fiery  Cross  has  called  them  forth, 
Bear  witness,  ill-starr'd  Flodden  Field, 
Where  Huntly  was  the  last  to  yield  ; 
Bear  witness,  Tillieangus  Heath, 
Wi'  mony  a  hero  stretch'd  beneath  ; 
Glenlivet,  where  the  base  Argyle 
Got  first  his  taste  o'  Bogie's  style  ; 
And  mony  a  Covenantin'  raid 
Whaur  waved  the  dark -green  tartan  plaid, 
And  whaur  the  *'  byd — and — !  "  slogan  cry 
Proclaimed  the  dauntless  Gordons  nigh  ! 


Passing  from  "A  Dream  o'  Hame**  and  glancing 
over  the  numerous  other  poems  in  Mr.  Law's  book, 
we  are  at  once  impressed  with  the  great  variety  of 
subjects  on  --/hich  his  muse  has  alighted.  There 
are  poems,  epistles,  songs,  addresses,  prayers, 
psalms,    nursery  ballads  in    great   abundance  and 


If 


t 


l\ 


219 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


there  is  something  worthy  of  the  poet  in  all  of  them. 
Take  the  following  few  verses,  culled  here  and  there 
at  random,  to  illustrate  this.  The  reader  will  find 
some  peculiar  feature,  a  pleasing  thought,  a  flash  of 
wit,  a  voice  of  sorrow  or  a  happy  lyrical  note  embod- 
ied in  each  of  them : 


Up  an'  iivaur  them  a',  Willie, 

Up  an'  waur  them  a' ! 
In  fields  o'  war  a  brichter  star 

Than  yours  we  never  saw,  Willie  ! 
An'  noo  in  peace  ye  shine  the  same 

As  in  the  years  awa',  Willie, 
Wi'  spotless  fame  and  deathless  name. 

The  brawest  o'  the  braw,  Willie  ! 

—To  General  W.  T.  Sherman. 


Could  I  but  wander  at  my  swing, 
Withpout  a  thocht  but  live  and  sing. 
O'er  mither-tongue  aince  more  would  ring 

To  lands  remote, 
But  Warldly  Cares — they  clog  the  wiug, 

And  cramp  the  note  ! 

— Epistle  to  Shedden. 

We  see  the  bumie  wind  alang 

It's  journey  to  the  sea, 
And  hear  it  sing  its  auld-time  sang 

or  mingled  grief  and  glee. 
Again  the  merle  wi'  silver  throat 

Rings  gloamin'  o'er  the  lawn, 
And  lav'rocks  pipe  their  golden  note 

Exultant  to  the  dawn  ! 


JAMES  D.    LAW. 


^'3 


Anew  for  us  the  daisies  bloom 

And  all  their  charms  unfold ; 
Afresh  we  scent  the  whins  and  broom 

That  deck  the  dells  wi'  gold  ! 

— Prologue  to  Scottish  Concert. 

"  Gae  bring  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 
"I'll  drink,"  said  Bums,  "before  I  go, 
A  service  to  the  old  divine 

Whose  nnmbers  so  divinely  flow  !  '• 
*'0,  Tullochgorum's  my  delight — 

The  best  song  Scotland  ever  saw  !  " 
Thus  did  the  raptur'd  Robbie  write 

As  if  his  ain  were  uocht  ava. 
And  there  that  day  to  Skinner's  son 

The  Ayrshire  bard  by  word  o'  mou' 
Confess'd  nae  sma'  that  he  had  done 

Was  to  the  Linshart  poet  due. 

— Burns  in  Aberdeen. 

Noo  the  sea's  betwixt  us  roarin' 

And  has  been  for  mony  a  year, 
But  n  dreams  I'm  aften  soarin' 

To  the  land  I  lo'e  sae  dear  ; 
And  I'll  never  seek  to  grum'le, 

Be  my  fortune  sma'  or  \>  y, 
MV  hile  my  heart  can  catcL  v^v^i  rummle 

Frae  the  auld  Bow-Brig ! 

—Song,  The  Auld  Bow-Brig. 


When  first  your  lay  went  o'er  the  Water 

I  ti'ow  ii  raised  aa  unco  clatter, 

And  fe^</  there  vvCi-*  iiicTincd  to  flatter, 

W«»  mavn  cou'c^a, 
While  somrt  ue^jlar  id  ye  were  a  Satyr, 

And  niV'i^ing  less ! 

—To  Walt  Whitman. 


M 


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214 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Hech  !  siccan  lilts  frae  pipers  braw 

On  Monday  we'll  be  hearin' 
Ere  PhcEbus  o'er  the  City  Ha' 

Will  hae  his  colts  careerin'; 
Then  Caledonian  clansmen  a' 

Will  jump  their  Highland  gear  in, 

And  croose  in  croods  be  steerin, 
For  Pastime  Park  awa' ! 

— The  Merry  Quakers. 

Among  Mr.  Law's  smaller  poems  none  is  more 
beautiful  or  touching  than  the  one  entitled  **  In 
Memoriam  La  Teste."  This  effusion,  while  an  ex- 
ceedingly tender  one,  is  yet  a  manly  one,  and  it 
proves  that  the  author  possesses  a  kind,  sympa- 
thetic nature  and  a  true  Christian  heart.  "La 
Teste"  certainly  could  not  have  had  a  more  fitting 
memorial  commemoracing  his  genius  and  virtues 
than  is  here  preserved  for  all  time  in  the  simple  in 
memoriam  lines  of  Mr.  Law : 

IN  MEMORIAM  "  LA  TESTE." 

"  *  La  Teste'  is  dead  !  "  so  came  the  news 
Across  the  wild  Atlantic's  faem  ; 
The  darling  o'  the  Doric  Muse 
Noo  sleeps  within  his  hiumost  hame  ! 
And  shall  the  Scottish  Laureate  gang 
Unnoticed  to  the  kirkyard  gloom 
Withoot  the  tribute  o'  a  sang 
To  deck  his  unpretentious  tomb  ? 
Shall  puddlers  in  Parnassus  well 
Be  laid  with  pomp  below  the  sward 
And  nane  be  found  a  note  to  swell 
In  honour  o'  the  rustic  bard  ? 


jame:s  d.  law. 


^/j 


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In 

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O,  Willie  was  a  clever  chiel 
And  though  his  face  I  never  saw 
I  kent  him  and  I  loed  him  weel, 
And  mourn  him  noo  that  he's  awa.' 
He  had  his  fauts  and  I  hae  mine, 
And  ye  hae  yours,  whae'er  ye  be — 
Ah  !  frien',  wash  oot  the  motes  in  thine 
Afore  ye  fash  your  brither's  e'e  ! 
Equipp'd  beyond  his  fellow  men. 
For  verse  he  had  the  happiest  turn. 
And  words  cam'  ripplin'  frae  his  pen 
Spontaneous  as  the  Lossie  Burn  ! 
Unlike  maist  poets  noo  in  vogue, 
Whose  drift  the  mass  in  vain  divines, 
Nae  dark  conundrum  weighted  fog 
Obscures  the  purport  of  his  lines, 
Gie  readers,  blest  wi'  lear  an'  time, 
The  singer  skilled  in  mystic  airts, 
I'm  partial  to  the  simple  rhyme 
That  works  its  way  to  hamely  herts. 
Implanted  by  the  ingle-nook. 
Or  stretch'd  beneath  a  shady  tree 
Enraptur'd  o'er  his  bonny  book 
I've  seen  the  'oors  like  minutes  flee ! 
For  honest  fun  he  had  a  smile. 
And  thrumm'd  his  harp  in  sweet  accord, 
But  in  his  strong  satiric  style 
His  stylus  oft  became  a  sword  ! 
And  he  could  weep  with  those  who  wept, 
Give  solace  to  the  wearied  frame. 
And  sparks  o'  hope  that  long  had  slept 
His  rousing  words  could  fan  to  flame  ! 
Nae  care  could  chill  his  genial  crack, 
Nae  dunts  frae  fate  his  hand  could  stay, 
The  world  grew  sunnier  when  he  spak' 
And  merrier  when  he  trill'd  his  lay ! 


2l6 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Tho*  stranger  to  a  cozy  nest, 

Thro'  summer's  sun  and  winter's  sleet, 

The  bird  kept  singing  in  his  breast 

Until  his  heart  had  ceased  to  beat ! 

His  voice  shall  <vake  the  woods  no  more, 

'  ui  yet  'tis  comfort  now  to  feel 

';e  sleeps,  with  all  his  wanderings  o'er, 

Amang  the  scenes  he  lo'ed  sae  weel ! 

An'  tho'  his  lyre  be  noo  laid  by 

Unstopped  shall  ring  the  minstrel's  strains, 

He  is  not  dead — he'll  never  die, 

While  Scotland  and  her  speech  remains  ! 

Many  of  Mr.  Law's  epistles  are  deserving  of  more 
than  a  mere  reference  to  their  names.  He  seems  to 
have  a  happy  faculty  for  striking  off  one  of  these 
rhyming  letters  just  at  the  right  time,  and  most  of 
them  are  above  the  average  poet's  work  in  this  di- 
rection. As  a  rule  they  are  of  humorous  character, 
but  they  also  contain  some  sound,  wholesome  reas- 
oning, and  no  doubt,  the  several  parties  to  whom 
they  are  addressed  will  treasure  them  with  great 
care.     As  a  specimen  we  quote : 


An  off-hand  epistle  addressed  to  a  Deeside  Scot 
after  reading  •*  Tibbie  Shiels  in  Yarrow,"  and  a  kind 
comment  on  some  of  my  verses,  by  Prof.  John 
Stuart  Blackie: 

Dear  Marr : — ^Your  letter  cam'  yestreen, 

In  troth  it  made  me  canty ; 
The  Great  Tribune  to  be  my  frien' 

Is  honor  far  from  scanty ! 


JAMES   D,    LA  IV. 


217 


And  here,  ye  see,  I've  tried  my  han' 

In  far-aflF  Camden  city, 
To  imitate  the  Grand  Old  Man 

And  his  inspiring  ditty  ! 

It's  worthy  o'  the  fruitful  times 

When  Scott  was  in  his  glory. 
When  Wordsworth  trilled  the  triple  rhymes 

Renowned  in  song  and  story.- 
It  has  the  happy,  hearty  ring 

Few  living  bards  can  marrow — 
Bravo,  old  Poet,  thus  to  sing 

Of  Tibbie  Shiel's  in  Yarrow  ! 
tt  #  %  If. 

Alas  !  that  I  the  truth  should  own, 

Thus  far  on  life's  short  journey, 
Tho'  years  a  score  in  Caledon 

I  never  saw  the  burnie ; 
Confined  at  hame  to  ae  puir  spot. 

Till  Fortune  sea- ward  bore  me, 
The  classic  lands  of  Burns  and  Scott 

Are  unexplored  before  me ! 

This  prosy  land  provides  for  me 

Nae  sheep  nor  tunefu'  shepherd  ; 
The  salmon  I'm  allooed  to  see 

Are  either  cann'd  or  kipper'd  ! 
And  what  o'er  a'  the  lave  is  mair 

A  poet's  soul  to  harrow, 
My  Tweed's  the  drumlie  Delaware, 

A  slimy  ditch  my  Yarrow  ! 

Nae  hill  rears  high  its  heath-clad  crest, 

But  sand-heaps  in  abundance 
Shed  burrs  on  Nature's  brawny  breast 

In  unco  great  redundance. 


ii 


2lS 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Instead  o'  round  a  lake  to  tramp 

Wi'  rifle  and  retriever, 
I  hugger  o'er  a  dismal  swamp 

And  fecht  the  chills  and  fever  ! 


% 


i 


Nae  lark  regales  me  in  the  morn 

Wi'  bursts  o'  song  spasmodic ; 
The  strain  that  on  the  breeze  is  borne 

At  nicht  comes  frae  the  puddock  ! 
Throughout  the  day  I'm  glad  to  hear 

The  chirpin'  o'  a  sparrow, 
And  dream  aboot  the  birds  that  cheer 

The  dowie  dens  o'  Yarrow  ! 

In  spite  o'  a'  I  sing  my  sang, 

And  tho'  I'm  aften  weary. 
The  better  day  to  come  or  lang 

Aye  keeps  my  courage  cheery  ! 
I  look  for  mony  a  meiTy  rant 

Ere  death  lets  fling  his  arrow, 
And  not  the  least  will  be  my  jaunt 

To  see  the  Braes  o'  Yarrow ! 

Mr.  James  D.  Law  was  born  in  Lumsden,  West 
Aberdenshire,  Scotland,  in  1865.  It  may  here  be 
interesting  to  note  that  in  the  same  village  was  born 
the  Rev.  W.  R.  Nicoll,  editorof  the  London  "Book- 
man," the  '*  British  Weekly,"  "  Expositor,"  and  the 
discoverer  of  Barrie,  Crockett  and  Maclaren.  Our 
author  received  a  good  common  English  education, 
completing  his  term  as  a  pupil-teacher.  From  the 
age  of  18  to  21  he  was  employed  in  the  estates  office 
at  Durris,  Deeside.  He  married  in  1886  and  then 
emigrated  to  this  country.     He  is  now  a  respected 


JAMES   D.    LA  IV. 


2/g 


citizen  of  Camden,  N.  J.,  and  holds  a  responsible 
position  with  a  manufacturing  company  in  Philadel- 
phia. He  has  four  children,  two  boys  and  two  girls. 
His  wife  is  an  intelligent  and  worthy  woman,  and  is 
naturally  proud  of  her  gifted  husband.  A  few  years 
ago  Mr.  Law  was  awarded  a  prize,  offered  by  the 
North  American  Uniied  Caledonian  Association  for 
the  best  Scottish  poem  by  a  resident  of  the  United 
States  or  Canada. 

When  "  Dreams  o'  Fame  and  Other  poems"  Vvas 
published  the  very  handsome  general  appearance 
of  the  book  was  the  subject  of  much  favorable  com- 
ment. It  certainly  has  none  of  the  poverty  stricken 
look  about  it  that  characterizes  some  vohmies  of 
poems.  The  writer  has  read  a  review  of  it  in  which 
the  stock  phrase,  '•  Echoes  of  Burns,"  vvas  made  use 
of.  It  is  about  time,  however,  that  the  critics  dis- 
continued this  phrase  in  reviewing  a  new  volume  of 
Scottish  poems.  Why  not  '  *  Echoes  of  Shakespeare, ' ' 
or  Milton  or  Dryden  or  Pope  or  even  Tennyson, 
when  reviewing  a  new  book  of  English  poems  ? 
Surely  Burns  did  not  exhaust  entirely  the  field  of 
Scottish  poetic  literature.  Was  he  an  echo  of  Ram- 
say or  Fergusson  ?  Hardly.  Mr  Law  is  cndowe 
with  all  the  finer  qualities  of  a  poet.  Originality  is 
one  of  these  qualities  and  to  say  that  any  one  of  his 
poems  is  an  echo  of  Burns  is  simply  to  talk  nonsense. 

As  up-to-date  specimens  of  Mr.  Law's  muse,  we 
take  pleasure  in  quoting  the  two  following  effusions. 
The  first  is  a  lilt  in  which  loyalty  to  the  land  of 


220 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


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adoption  is  happily  blended  with  the  exile's  never 
dying  love  for  the  "  Auld  Countrie ; "  and  the  sec- 
ond is  an  earnest  protest  against  the  too  common 
habit  of  a  certain  class  who  make  use  of  the  terms 
England  and  English  instead  of  Great  Britain  and 
British.  Thanks,  by  the  way,  are  due  to  Mr.  Law 
from  every  Scot,  for  so  earnest  a  protest  regarding 
the  matter. 

COLUMBIA— CAIvEDONIA 
A    SCOTTISH-AMERICAN     SONG. 

Columbia  treats  her  strangers  weel: 

The  langer  kent  she  grows  tnair  dear; 

And  affthe  heath  nae  Scot  can  feel 
So  much  at  hame  as  here  ! 

"Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share ; 
Lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye  ! " 

I. 

The  land  we  left — aye  to  us  dear  ! 

We've  sung  it  lood  and  lang ; 
But  Lae  we  nae  a  country  here 

As  worthy  o'  a  sang  ? 
While  Scotland's  name  and  Scotland's  fame 

Wi'  us  can  never  dee, 
Columbia  noo  we've  made  oor  hame, 
And  praise  to  her  we'll  gie  ! 

The  Mither  Land  !  The  Mither  Land  ! 

Let's  couple  wi'  her  name 
The  Independent  ither  land 
We  noo  hae  made  oor  hame  ! 


JAMES  D.    LA  IV. 


221 


II. 

Shak*  oot  the  starry  banner's  fauld, 

And  let  the  Thistle  wave  ; 
The  rampant  Lion's  nae  mair  bauld 

Than  is  the  Eagle  brave  ! 
The  land  we're  in's  a  peerless  land, 

As  big  as  Scotia's  wee ; 
Weel  worthy  by  her  side  to  stand 
And  aye  oor  hame  to  be  ! 

We'll  ne'er  forget  the  Mither  Land, 

Nor  need  a  Scot  think  shame 
To  sing  wi'  pride  the  ither  land 
We  noo  hae  made  oor  hame  ! 

IIL 

The  hame  we  had — the  hame  w'  hae  ! 

O,  lang  and  far  ye'll  ca' 
Afore  ye  meet,  if  e'er  ye  may, 

Wi'  sic  anither  twa  ! 
Auld  Caledonia's  first  and  best 

O'  lands  across  the  sea  ; 
And  here's  the  glory  o'  the  West, 
The  country  o'  the  free  ! 

God's  blessings  on  the  Mither  Land, 

And  a'  within  the  same, 
And  also  on  the  ither  land 
We  noo  hae  made  oor  hame  ! 


SCOTLAND  FOR  THE  SCOTS.* 

Weel,  weel,  what  are  things  comin'  to? 

What  has  become  o'  Britain  ? 
Wi'  a'  the  English  "  England"  noo 

Is  aye  the  wye  it's  written. 

♦Suggested  by  reading  the  I,ondon  Daily  News  controversy  on  "  The 
Isolation  of  England." 


If) 


; 


222 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Puir  Britons  !  they  hae  clean  forgot's — 
They  will  hae  nocht  but  "  Englan'," 

As  gin  she  were  ashamed  wi'  Scots 
(And  Irish)  to  be  niinglin'  ! 

We  ken  the  English  head  is  dense, 

The  Hinglish  he'rt  is  naiTow  ; 
We  ken  that  English  insolence 

Has  never  had  its  marrow  ; 
But  let  them  gabble  a'  their  micht 

We  hae  oor  Constitution, 
And  winna  halt  to  read  it  richt 

Tho'  it  bring  dissolution  ! 

Oh  !  for  the  pen  o'  Robbie  Burns, 

To  lash  the  Cockney  Cuddies, 
That  wi'  their  quills  are  fain  to  turn's 

Clean  into  Sass'nach  bodies  ! 
My  faith  to  try  to  Englify 

The  hale  big  British  nation  ; 
Sic  want  o'  sense,  sic  impudence — 

It  fairly  beats  creation  ! 

They  prate  as  if  they  had  forgot — 

A  fact  maun  nae  be  slighted — 
'Twas  by  a  true,  richt  royal  Scot 

The  kingdoms  were  united. 
Nae  English  king  cam'  marchin'  north 

For  Scotland's  annexation. 
But  soothward  Scotty  sallied  forth 

For  English  coronation  ! 

Come,  Johnny  Bull !  hing  doon  yer  heid  ; 

To  this  there's  nae  demurrin' ; 
It  sets  ye  ill — it  does  indeed — 

At  Scots  to  aye  be  slurrin'. 


JAMES  D.    LAW. 


223 


' 


They  thrashed  ye  aft  in  days  lang  syne 
When  put  upon  their  muscle, 

And  ere  they  independence  tine 
They'll  risk  anither  tussle  ! 

When  Caledonia  blaws  her  horn, 

Whate'er  the  tricks  ye  try  on, 
Ye'll  bully  nae  the  Unicom, 

Nor  yet  the  Rampant  1/ion. 
St.  George  will  dance  when  by  his  nose 

St.  Andrew's  Cross  will  whistle. 
And  whatna  Scot  would  fear  a  rose, 

As  lang's  there  wags  a  Thistle  ! 

All  honour  to  our  noble  Queen — 

"And  Empress" — as  'tis  written — 
She  hasna  been  coerced,  I  ween, 

To  drop  the  name  o'  Britain. 
And  while  a  Scot  can  say  his  say. 

While  North  and  South  are  mated, 
Her  royal  "  British"  better  nae 

To  **  English''  be  translated  ! 

Is  there  a  man  that  advocates 

A  country  as  complex  as 
The  grand  and  great  United  States 

Should  tak'  the  name  o'  Texas  ? 
And  he  or  she,  whae'er  thv       e. 

Their  lugs  deserve  a  tinglin'. 
That  try  to  mak'  Great  Britain  wee 

By  speakin'  o't  as  Englan'  ! 

It's  Britain,  it's  Britain, 
And  so  it  must  be  written. 
But  gin  ye  ken  that  Englishmen 
Wi^h  frae  the  map  to  blot's. 


i 


:      s . 


2^4 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


We'll  leave  the  English  England. 
(The  Irish,  too,  ould  Ireland), 
Ay  let  them  gang  and  get  alang, 
Wi'  *'  Scotland  for  the  vScots." 

We  advise  Mr.  Law  to  continue  to  exercise  his 
poetic  powers.  He  has  accomplished  much  in  the 
past,  but  he  is  a  yoiing  man,  and  his  countrymen 
both  at  home  and  abroad  are  convinced  that  he  will 
yet  produce  something  that  will  send  his  name  ring- 
ing throughout  all  parts  of  the  civilized  world  where 
the  English  language  is  known.  The  Scottish  speak- 
ing portion  of  the  globe  already  know  of  hir 


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JOHN    IMRn^. 


lOHN   IMRIE. 


Few  Canadian  poets  of  to-day  are  more  popular 
or  better  known  throughout  the  great  Dominion  than 
is  the  subject  of  our  present  sketch,  Mr.  John  Imrie 
of  Toronto,  Ontario,  and  the  reason  of  this  is  at 
once  obvious.  Merit  will  always  command  attention, 
and  Mr.  Imrie  is  a  poet  of  a  very  high  order  of 
merit.  His  poems  are  the  outpourings  of  a  heart 
that  is  imbued  with  the  sensitive  and  finer  feelings 
of  a  poet.  They  are  pure,  intellectual,  vigorous, 
patriotic  and  sincere,  and  in  a  great  number  of  in- 
stances they  contain  similes  and  thoughts  which  are 
morally  and  poetically  beautiful.  His  subjects  are 
well  chosen,  and  such  as  he  is  capable  of  treating 
successfully ;  his  sentiment  is  affectionate  and  loyal ; 
his  versification  easy  and  correct ;  hi;^  style  free  and 
simple;  his  command  of  language  ample  for  his  pur- 
pose. Mr.  Albert  E.  S.  Smythe  of  Toronto  certainly 
does  not  overestimate  his  abilities  when  he  says: 

Imrie,  your  lyrics  pass  the  laws  of  kings, 

Whose  dread  decrees  but  steeled  the  captive's  heart; 

Your  home-taught  lays  a  softer  power  impart, — 
lyovc,  joy  and  peace,  the  might  that  mercy  brings  : 
And,  though  your  muse  lack  flight  of  angel's  wings, 

To  walk  and  talk  with  men  is  no  mean  art. 

Strong  in  life's  straits,  secure  against  death's  dart, 
Attuned  to  truth,  foreprizing  hallowed  things. 


I 


■,1 

I'  ■'^' 


'm 


226 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Not  of  the  mockers,  nor  of  those  who  make 
Love's  sacrament  a  feasting,  passion -spiced  ; 

Not  lucre-thralled,  nor  cankered  with  the  ache 
Of  envy  ;  free  of  almsdeed  ^  (  nor  priced  ; 

Not  of  the  world  :  but  humbly  for  His  SFke, 
Striving  the  nobler  manhood  after  Ch 


,/ 


li 


ti,; 


-:% 


Mr.  Imrie  is  the  author  of  three  volumes  of 
poetry,  all  of  which  have  been  well  received  by  those 
parties  interested,  and  therefore  in  a  measure  able 
to  judge  of  such  works.  His  latest  volume  is  a 
handsome  8vo  of  379  paj^es.  It  contains  262  poems, 
which  are  divided  into  groups  as  follows,  "  Patriotic 
Poems,"  "Poems  of  Love,  Home  and  Friendship," 
"Miscellaneous  Poems,"  "Sacred  Compositions," 
and  "vSonnets. "  It  will  readily  be  seen  from  this 
that  Mr,  Imrie  is  a  voluminous  writer  of  poetry,  yet 
he  is  a  man  whose  business  engageujcnts  do  not  per- 
mit of  his  enjoying  many  leisure  hours.  The  few 
hours,  however,  which  he  has  occasionally  spent  at 
the  divine  shrine  of  poesy  have  been  happy  hotirs  to 
him.  His  heart  and  soul  is  in  poetry  and  poetical 
subjects,  and  being  a  poet  himself  by  nature  his  own 
harp  is  seldom  silent  for  any  great  length  of  time. 
Among  the  finest  poems  in  liii:  book  is  the  following: 

NIAGARA   FAIJvvS. 

Oh,  Niagara  !  as  at  thy  brink  I  stand, 

My  soul  is  filled  with  wonder  and  delight, 

To  trace  in  thee  that  wonder-working  Hand, 
Whose  hollow  holds  the  seas  in  balance  light ! 


rr 


JOHN   IMRIE. 


227 


Worthy  art  thou  to  be  a  nation's  pride, — 

A  patriot'.s  Tjoast — a  world's  unceasing  wonder ; 

I^ike  some  bold  monarch  calling  to  thy  side 
Subjects  from  every  clime  in  tones  of  thunder? 

Deep  on  my  soul  thy  grandeur  is  impress'd, 
Thy  awful  majesty — thy  mighty  power — 

Th)'  C(  aselcss  tumult  and  thy  great  unrest, 
Like  nations  warring  in  dread  conflict's  hour  ! 

Rainbows  of  glory  sparkle  round  thy  shrine. 
Cresting  thy  waters  with  efTulgence  bright ; 

And  in  thy  foaming  currents  intertwine 
Rare  coruscations  of  conimingl'd  light  ! 

Like  roar  of  battle,  or  like  thunder's  call, 
Thy  deep-toned  echoes  roll  with  solemn  sound  ; 

Like  pillar'd  clouds  thy  vapors  rise,  and  fall 
Like  S'parkling  pearls  upoti  the  thirsty  ground  ! 

Rush  on  !  rush  on  !  in  thy  uncheck'd  career, 
With  avalanchic  power  thy  course  pursue  ; 

While  rending  rocks  quake  as  with  mortal  fear, 
And  stand  in  awe  to  let  thy  torrents  through  ! 

Naught  but  the  hand  of  God  could  stay  thy  course, 
Or  dr;,ve  thee  back  to  Erie's  peaceful  keep  ; 

Then  onward  press  with  thy  gigantic  force, 
Till  in  Ontario's  bosom  lulled  to  sleep  ! 


Kmblem  of  Freedom  !  who  would  dare  essay 
To  bar  thy  noisy  progress  to  the  sea  ? 

Then  onward  press  !  while  bord'ring  nations  pray 
For  strength  and  wisdom  to  be  great  and  free  ! 


1:8 


I 

1 

'11 

11 

'■ 

i 

J 

228 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Following  this  poem  is  one  entitled  '  *  The  Links 
That  Bind  Us. "  This  is  a  very  beautiful  and  touching 
composition  and  contains  sentiments  which  at  once 
appeal  to  the  innermost  feelings  oi  all  classes  and 
conditions  of  people.  It  is  a  warm  and  affectionate 
effusion  and  will  do  ranch  to  perpetuate  the  memory 
of  the  gifted  author: 

THE   IvINKvS  THAT  BIND  US. 

Oh  !  the  fond  links  that  bind  ns  to  this  earth, 
Strong  as  bands  of  iron — yet  fine  as  gold  ; 

Partings  and  tears  oft  mingle  with  our  mirth — 
If  loving  much  love  never  can  grow  cold  ! 

Ah  !  were  it  not  for  partings  now  and  then, 
Love  of  home  and  friends  were  never  tested, — 

Hardship  and  trial  make  the  nol)lest  men  : 
Present  pain  is  future  joy  invested  ! 

The  patriot's  wistful  eyes  are  dimm'd  with  tears 
When  parting  from  his  much-lov'd  native  soil, 

His  heart  doth  throb  with  many  doubts  and  fears, 
Yet  Hope  points  forward  though  his  soul  recoil ! 

But  when  the  weary  years  have  come  and  gone. 
And  o'er  the  sea  he  homeward  ploughs  his  way, 

He  finds  his  former  doubts  and  fears  have  flown — 
Midnight  with  him  hath  changed  to  dawn  of  day  ! 

A  mother  parts  with  one — her  only  son, 
Each  shows  but  half  the  anguish  that  they  feel, — 

The  voyage  finished,  or  the  battle  won, 
What  depths  of  love  the  meeting  doth  reveal ! 


1   ! 


JOHN  IMRIE. 


229 


Methinks  such  joy  is  ours  when  God,  at  last, 
Shall  find  us  gather'd  'neath  Heaven's  azure  dome  ; 

Our  journeys,  tears,  and  partings  of  the  past 
Will  be  as- naught  if  we  but  reach  our  home  ! 

Next  we  have  a  delightful  little  lyrical  piece  en- 
titled "The  Sweetest  Word  on  Earth  is  Home," 
which  has  been  set  to  appropriate  music  by  Professor 
J.  F.  Johnstone,  of  Toronto,  and  in  this  form  has 
attained  an  extensive  sale.  The  subject,  we  need 
hardly  remind  our  readers,  is  a  favorite  one  with 
poets,  and  it  is  therefore  all  the  more  to  Mr.  Imrie's 
credit  that  he  has  been  able  to  present  us  with  a 
poem  which  compares  favorably  with  other  authors' 
compositions  on  the  same  subject : 


THE  SWEETEST  WORD  ON  EARTH   IS   HOME. 

The  sweetest  word  on  earth  is  home, 

To  loving  hearts  most  dear  ; 
Where'er  our  footsteps  seek  to  roam, 

Home  thoughts  are  ever  near. 
The  mem'ries  sweet  of  life's  spring-day 

Keep  fresh  and  green  forever. 
Like  fragrant  flowers  they  scent  the  way 
Adown  life's  winding  river. 
Chorus. — ^The  dearest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
Is  that  we  call  "our  home  !" 
'Tis  there  we  look  with  longing  eyes 
Though  o'er  the  earth  we  roam  ! 

Our  homes  may  be  where  mountains  rise 
Like  dark-green  clouds  to  Heaven  ; 

Or  where  the  valley-lily  lies 
Our  humble  lot  be  given  ; 


2JO 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Or  on  an  island  of  the  sea 
Oft  by  the  tempest  prest : 

No  matter  where  our  homes  may  be, 
To  each  that  home  is  blest. 
Cho. — "  The  dearest  spot,"  etc. 


The  strongest  love  within  man's  breast 

Is  love  of  life  and  home  ; 
Like  fledglings  hovering  round  their  nest 

Our  thoughts  encircle  home  ; 
Our  years  may  reach  three-score-and-ten. 

And  full  of  changes  be, 
Yet  scenes  of  homes  will  haunt  us  then 

When  life  was  pure  and  free. 
Cho. — "  The  dearest  spot,"  etc. 

Where  love  hath  cast  her  golden  spell 

And  kindest  deeds  are  done, 
Where  loving  hearts  unite  to  dwell, 

'Tis  heaven  on  earth  begun  ; 
Then  cherish  home  with  jealous  care 

And  let  not  strife  prevail ; 
Thus  for  our  "  heavenly  home  "  prepare. 

Secure  within  the  vail. 
Cho. — "  The  dearest  spot,"  etc. 


Mr.  Imrie  is  a  native  of  Glasgow,  Scotland,  hav- 
ing been  born  there  about  fifty  years  ago.  It  is 
therefore  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  many  of  his 
pieces  are  in  the  Scottish  dialect.  Indeed,  as  far  as 
we  can  judge,  his  best  pieces  are  those  in  which  he 
expresses  his  thoughts  and  feelings  in  the  language 
of  Burns  and  Scott — his  own  sweet  mother  tongue. 
His  compositions  in  this  respect  are  on  a  wide  variety 


JOHN  IMRIE. 


2^1 


of  subjects.  We  have  "Bruce  and  Bannockburn," 
♦♦The  Dying  Scot  Abroad,"  ♦'The  Hielan'  Fling,' 
♦♦My  Heart  is  Scotland's  Yet,"  ♦' Scotch  Dainties," 
♦♦Scotty,"  ♦♦  The  Thistle,"  ♦'A  Bunch  o'  Heather," 
♦♦A  Scotch  Surprise  Party,"  ♦'Hame,yetno  at  Hame," 
♦♦  My  Mither's  Grave,"  and  various  others,  all  more 
or  less  interesting  and  all  showing  the  handmark  of 
a  true  poet.  We  quote  two  of  these  pieces  as  speci- 
mens of  his  Scottish  muse : 

MY  MITHER'S  GRAVE. 

I  Stan'  beside  the  cauld  head-stane, 

An'  wat  it  wi'  my  tears  ; 
An'  whisper,  ^^  Milher,  here^ s your  wean 

Ye  hav'na'  seen  for  years  /" 
Whan  last  I  saw  your  dear,  sweet  face, 

An'  heard  your  kindly  tone, 
I  little  thought  that  this  dread  place 

So  soon  would  claim  its  own. 


't 


I  plann'd  to  tak'  you  ower  the  sea, 

To  comfort  an'  to  ease, 
Whaur  you  could  end  your  daj-s  wi'  me, 

An'  dae  maist  as  you  please  ; 
But,  ah  !  the  I^ord  had  ither  plans, 

An'  sent  for  you  Himsel'  ; 
His  ways  are  no'  aye  like  to  man's, 

Yet  does  He  a'  things  well ! 

But,  though  you  cannot  come  to  me, 

I  j'ct  shall  gang  to  you, 
When  death  shall  set  my  spirit  free 

I'll  mount  yon  starry  blue. 


i 


^1 

t   li 

)   '1 


vi 


^3^ 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Where  grief  an'  partings  are  no  more  . 

Nor  Death,  nor  any  pain, 
You'll  welcome  me  on  Canaan's  shore — 

We'll  never  pairt  again  ! 

Farewell !  most  sacred  spot  to  me. 

My  dear  auld  mither's  grave, 
I'll  think  o'  thee  when  ower  the  sea, 

Ayont  Atlantic's  wave  ; 
Our  graves  may  yet  be  far  apart, 

Our  spirits  joined  shall  be. 
There's  aye  a  green  spot  in  my  heart, 

My  mither  dear,  for  thee  ! 

SCOTCH   DAINTIES. 

Gie  a  Scotchman  a  guid  cog  o'  brose, 
Wi'  milk  just  new  drawn  frae  the  coo  ; 

Feth  ye'll  no  see  him  turn  up  his  nose, 
But  tak'  them,  and  then  smack  his  moo' ! 

Chorus: — lirose,  parrilch,  kail,  haggis  an'  bannocks. 
Are  dainties  abune  a'  compare  ! 
Nae  English,  French,  Yankees,  or  Cannucks, 
Could  mak'  sucli  a  gran'  bill  o'  fare  ! 

Guid  parritch  for  weans  is  sae  healthy, 
It  mak's  them  grow  strong,  fat  an'  weel, 

Dyspeptics  are  aye  'mang  the  wealthy. 
They  eat  what  wad  sicken  an  eel  ! 

Cho. — "  Brose,  parritch,  kail,"  etc. 

An'  what  is  sae  nice  as  Scotch  kail, 

Wi'  carrots,  an'  turnips,  an'  leeks  ; 
Hielan'  men  are  braw,  hearty  an'  hale — 

Yet  gang  a'  the  year  withoot  breaks ! 
Cho. — "  Brose,  parritch,  kail,"  etc. 


JOHN  IMRIE. 


233 


s, 


But  the  haggis  is  king  o'  the  table, — 
A  Scotchman's  niaist  toothfu'  deUght, 

By  dining  on  that  he  is  able 
To  match  ony  twa  in  a  fight ! 

Cho. — '*  Brose,  parritch,  kail,"  etc. 

When  spying  for  game  in  Glen  Sannox, 

Ahint  a  wheen  stanes  on  my  knees. 
What's  sweeter  than  crumpin'  oat  bannocks, 

An'  eatin'  a  whang  o'  guid  cheese  ! 
Cho. — "  Brose,  parritch,  kail,"  etc. 

Brose,  parritch,  kail,  haggis  an'  bannocks, 
Wad  mak  lean  consumptives  grow  fat, 

Though  they'd  sleep  oot  at  nicht  in  hammocks. 
They'd  ne'er  be  a  bit  waur  o'  that ! 

Cho. — "Brose,  parritch,  kail,"  etc. 

Then  gie  us  oor  dainty  Scotch  farin' 
We'll  honour  the  auld  muckle  pat ! 

For  pastry  an'  pies  we're  no  carin', 
Scotch  laddies  are  no  built  wi'  that ! 

Cho. — "Brose,  parritch,  kail,"  etc. 

A  very  able  introduction  to  Mr.  Imrie's  poems, 
written  by  G.  Mercer  Adatn,  Esq.,  of  Toronto,  is 
prefixed    to    the    volume.        Mr.     Mercer    says: — 

"Among  the  diverse  interests  of  this  restless  mone)"- 
grubbing  world,  there  is  one  which  should  hold  a 
lai\jer  place  than  it  does  in  the  affections  of  the 
masses, — namely,  the  honest  unaffected  love  of  home 
and  home  pleasures.  In  these  days  we  are  all  of  us 
too  much  disposed  to  seek  enjoyment  abroad,  and  to 
figure  more  than  is  good  for  us  in  the  eye  of  the 


234 


A   CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


'*i^ 


public.  The  craving  for  excitement  has  made  us 
impatient  with  home,  and  the  fireside  and  domestic 
shrines  have  in  large  measure  lost  their  attraction. 
We  are  no  longer  satisfied,  with  the  novel,  with  the 
song  or  with  the  play,  thrit  used  to  delight  our  fore- 
fathers ;  nothing  so  simple  and  innocent  would  now 
content  us.  Even  our  religion  has  suffered  a  change. 
The  stern  morality  and  unbending  creeds  of  other 
days  have  become  pliant  and  yielding,  while  com- 
promise and  emasculated  beliefs  have  taken  their 
place.  The  old  djctrines  familiar  to  the  by-gone 
pulpit  now  offend  us,  though  we  are  not  particular 
if  the  preacher  resorts  to  irreverence  and  slang, — on 
the  contrary,  we  rather  encourage  him  in  this  pro* 
pensity.  With  tastes  and  cravings  so  destructive  to 
the  spiritual  life,  what  wonder  that  simple  joys  and 
quiet  domestic  pleasures  have  in  this  social  world 
lost  much  of  their  charm  ? 

"Yet  the  common  people, — as  the  phrase  goes,  the 
men  and  v  omen  who  are  doing  the  e very-day  work 
of  this  tolling  world,  stand  more  than  ever  in  need 
of  rest  and  quiet,  and  the  kindly  solacement  of 
happy  freside  intercourse.  Innocent  delights,  rest- 
ful pleasures,  and  the  blissful  contentment  of  a  well- 
ordered,  comfortable  home,  with  such  recreation  as 
these  Edens  afford,  must  be  the  necessities,  we  should 
think,  of  those  at  least  whose  lot  is  a  ceaseless  round 
of  toil.  To  such  our  author  comes  with  his  tuneful 
lyra  and  sings  us  the  gladsome  lays  of  the  home  and 
fireside.     Benefactor  is  he  not,  to  you  and  to  me,  if 


JOHN  IMRIE 


'35 


he  beguiles  us  from  our  distractions  and  cares,  and 
leads  us  to  realize  that,  after  all,  the  world's  happi- 
ness lies  in  the  quiet  comforts  and  refining  influences 
of  home  ?  It  would,  indeed,  be  difficult  for  thoughts, 
however  expressed,  on  love,  friendship,  home,  and 
kindred  topics  to  fail  of  finding  response  in  the  hu- 
man breast ;  and  the  average  reader  who  follows  the 
bent  of  his  own  unperverted  taste,  and  is  as  indifferent 
to  the  critics  as  the  poets  themselves,  will  find  much 
to  please  him  in  the  book. 

**Of  profit  he  should  also  find  much,  if  his  sym- 
pathies are  as  keen  and  broad  as  the  author's,  and 
his  appreciation  equal  to  his,  of  the  warm-hearted 
Christian  brotherhood,  and  unaffected  moral  purpose, 
which  should  find  expression  in  all  our  work.  Not 
its  least  merit,  it  must  be  said,  is  in  the  fact  that 
there  is  not  a  puzzling  or  baffling  line  in  the  book. 
This  should  be  counted  for  something,  when  there  is 
so  much  in  our  modern  verse,  not  ambitious  of  fame 
merely,  but  cold,  meaningless,  and  empty.  The 
volume,  is  chiefly  noteworthy,  however,  not  only  for 
unassuming  sincerity  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  but 
for  its  appeal  to  the  universal  and  easily  awakened 
feelings  of  our  common  humanity.  The  unobtrusive 
piety  and  strain  of  religious  sentiment  which  run, 
like  threads  of  gold,  through  the  book,  will,  we  are 
sure,  not  the  less  endear  the  volume  to  the  reverent 
reader,  and  to  those  whose  hearts  have  felt  the  in- 
fluences of  the  divine.  May  it  be  its  mission  to  keep 
alive  the  love  of  home,  to  minister  to  minds  dis- 


.,t,V 

,  .  ■ 

to. 


I. 


1-   f. 


'J6 


A  C LUSTER  or  I\)KTS, 


traiight  with  toil  and  care,  and  among  its  readers — 
we  trust  of  all  ranks  and  conditions  of  men — to  im- 
part an  eternal  sabbath  in  the  heart." 

With  all  this  praise,  however  (and  it  is  certainly 
not  unworthily  bestowed),  Mr.  Imrie  is,  as  Mr.  Adam 
implies,  very  unassuming  in  regard  to  his  own  merits 
as  a  poet.  In  the  preface  to  the  second  edition  of 
his  poems  he  says : 

*'  It  is  with  mingled  feelings  of  humility  and 
gratitude  to  my  friends  and  patrons  that  I  pen 
this  short  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  my 
poems.  It  is  but  three  years  since  I  ventured  to 
test  the  purchasing  appreciation  of  the  public  by 
publishing  my  first  volume,  and  now  with  more  con- 
fidence is  sent  forth  a  larger  edition  of  the  same 
book.  My  first  volume  extended  to  two  hundred  and 
ten  pages ;  in  this  edition  counting  later  poems  there 
are  three  hundred  and  fifty  pages.  Acting  on  the 
advice  of  friends,  there  will  be  found  a  number  of 
songs  set  to  music,  the  melody  of  which  I  have  in- 
troduced as  a  relief  to  the  eye,  and  a  solace  to  the 
ear,  of  my  musical  patrons.  Most  of  these  songs 
have  been  published  from  time  to  time  in  sheet- 
music  form,  and  have  met  with  a  ready  site. 

"The  children  of  the  home — as  in  h  drst  edition 
— have  a  liberal  share  of  my  th  ts  in  ha]     est 

moods,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  o .  'i  thn  I  have  a 
great  pleasure  in  serving  them  as  '  ch  Idren  of  a 
larger  growth. '  My  style  is  simple,  but  none  the  less 
sincere,  and  my  chief  desire  is  to  please  and  en- 


JOHN   IMRIE. 


»37 


\ 


courajje  the  toiling  masses.  That  these  humble 
heart-thoughts  and  aspirations  for  the  present  and 
future  welfare  of  my  fellow  countrymen,  and  hu- 
manity at  large,  may  be  accepted  in  the  kindly  spirit 
in  which  they  have  been  composed  is  the  earnest 
wish  of  the  author." 

As  may  be  infered  from  the  above,  included  in  Mr. 
Imrie's  book  are  a  number  of  pieces  suitable  for  and 
interesting  to  young  people.  They  are  decidedly  in 
the  author's  happiest  strain  and  are  popular  not  only 
in  Canada  but  elsewhere.  Here  is  one  of  the 
simplest : — 

SHE  PAYS  HER   DEBTS  WITH   KISSES. 

I  know  a  winsome  little  pet 

With  wealth  of  roseate  blisses, 
Who  takes  what  favors  she  can  get 

And  pays  her  debts  with — kisses  ! 

At  night  when  I  come  home  to  tea 
She  bribes  me  with  her  "  kishes," 

Then  plants  herself  upon  my  knee 
And  tastes  of  all  my  dishes. 

She  comes  off  best  in  every  "  trade," 

And  seldom  ever  misses 
To  catch  me  in  the  trap  she's  laid, 

Then  "  pays  me  off  "  with — kisfes  ! 


She  says  she  wants  a  "  dolly  "  nice, 
With  long  and  golden  tresses, 

And  if  I  ask  her  for  the  price, 
Gives  kisses  and  caresses ! 


:.    ^  r^m 


j!  !  ^  t 


I  ^-rff 


738 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


I  dearly  love  this  little  maid, 

AlKJve  all  other  misses  ; 
I'll  take  back  every  word  I've  said, 

And  "  trade  "  with  her  for  "  tisses  !" 

The  sonnet  is  also  a  favorite  style  of  composition 
with  our  author,  there  beinjTf  not  less  than  forty-four 
of  them  in  his  last  volume.  They  are  all  of  a  super- 
ior caste  and  contain  many  bright  and  cheerful 
thoughts  on  all  kinds  of  subjects.  We  quote  the 
following  specimens: 

FREKDOM. 

I'reedom  is  obedience  to  righteous  law 

Framed  for  the  guidance  of  a  nation  great ; 
Made  to  be  kept — not  broken  by  a  flaw 

Known  only  to  the  rulers  of  the  Stale  ! 
Justice  that  treats  the  rich  and  poor  alike, 

Defending  each  from  favor  and  attack  ; 
Slow  to  convict — yet  ready  aye  to  strike 

The  fatal  blow  on  all  that  honor  lack  ! 
A  nation's  strength  is  measured  by  her  laws  ; 

Her  safety  is  the  welfare  of  her  sons ; 
Industry  and  loyalty  the  power  that  draws 

In  peace  her  commerce,  and  in  war  her  guns  ! 
Freedom — our  birthright,  sell  it  not  for  gold, 
Our  fathers  bought  it  with  their  blood  of  old  ! 

REST. 

Rest  is  the  peaceful  calm  which  follows  toil ; 
Sweet  to  the  laboring  man  who  tills  the  soil ; 
Likewise  most  precious  to  the  weary  brain, 
Tired  with  the  dull  routine  of  loss  or  gain  ; 


!S 


JOHN   IMRIE. 


239 


Or  to  the  authors  of  our  learned  l)ooks, 
Who  show  the  trace  of  study  in  their  looks. 
All  value  rest — aH  need  those  quiet  hours 
As  much  as  doth  the  plant  those  welcome  showers 
Which  Heaven  sends  to  cool  the  fevered  earth, 
And  cause  sweet  Nature  sing  aloud  with  mirth. 
When  God  at  first  created  earth  and  skies, 
He  "  rested  "  in  the  shades  of  Paradise  ! 
Likewise  shall  we,  earth's  care  and  laljor  o'er, 
Find  rest  the  sweeter  for  the  toils  we  bore  ! 


m 


Nor  would  we  omit  in  passing"  to  mention  the  fact 
that  many  of  Mr.  Imrie's  pieces  show  some  excellent 
descriptive  writing.  His  powers  in  this  respect  are 
very  keen.  In  his  poem  on  "  Queenston  Heights  " 
he  says: 

Here  two  great  nations  met  as  if  to  kiss, 

Divided  only  by  a  silver  line  ; 
Peace,  welfare,  harmony  and  nuitual  bliss. 

Link  fruitful  branches  of  a  parent  vine. 

And  in  his  ode  to  "  Lake  Ontario," 


I:' 


Last  of  the  Inland  seas— yet  nearest  home — 
Thy  waters  soon  shall  swell  the  mighty  deep. 

And  mingle  with  the  ocean's  briny  foam, 
There  shalt  thou  rest,  and  there  for  ever  sleep. 

Before  taking  leave  of  our  author  and  his  works 
we  desire  to  call  special  attention  to  his  religious 
compositions.  They  are  all  expressed  in  beautiful 
language  and  contain  nothing  that  is  dogmatical  or 
offensive  to  any  one.     His  Christianity  is  of  the  true 


■i 


240 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


kind,  being  broad,  and  deep  and  charitable,  and  we 
may  add  that  the  record  of  his  own  Jife  proves  him 
to  be  a  man  of  great  piety  and  gentleness,  simplicity 
and  purity.  It  is  hard  to  determine  which  are  the 
most  suitable  religious  pieces  for  quotation,  but  we 
select  the  following: 


,  1 


THE  TOUCH   OF  THE  DIVINE. 

Each  grain  of  sand  by  sounding  sea, 
Each  trembling  leaf  on  quivering  tree, 
Each  blade  of  grass  on  dewy  lea. 
Speaks  volumes  of  God's  love  to  me  ! 


!;■;![ 


The  pearls  that  deep  in  ocean  lie, 
The  twinkling  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
The  sunbeam,  caught  from  noontide's  eye, 
Direct  my  thoughts,  oh  God,  to  Thee  ! 


The  flowers  that  deck  the  fragrant  dell, 
And  o'er  me  cast  their  beauty-spell, 
I  love  them,  for  they  seem  to  tell. 
The  story  of  God's  love  to  me  ! 

No  matter  where  I  wander  free, 
By  river,  lake  or  boundless  sea, 
The  touch  of  God's  dear  hand  I  see. 
And  know  by  these  He  loveth  me. 


Oh,  God  !    Thou  doest  all  things  well. 
Earth,  sea,  and  sky  Thy  wisdom  tell. 
In  heaven  what  must  it  be  to  dwell 
For  ever,  O  my  God,  with  Thee  ! 


JOHN  IMRIE. 


241 


d  we 
him 
icity 
i  the 
t  we 


\ 


OUR  MEETING-PLACE  IS   HEAVEN. 

Lines  on  the  death  of  Mrs.  G.  W.  Grant,  afiFectionatcly  dedicated  to  the 
sur\'iviugf  members  of  her  family. 

One  year  ago  a  reaper  came, 

The  reaper's  name  was  Death  ; 
He  gently  whispered  baby's  name, 

And  chill'd  her  with  his  breath  ! 
Her  mother's  heart  was  sorely  riv'n, 

The  father  bow'd  his  head — 
She's  but  transplanted  safe  in  Heaven, 

And  lives — whom  we  call  dead  ! 

But  mother  pin 'd— and  Death  was  kind — 

He  could  not  part  them  long. 
For  now  they  meet  al  Jesus'  feet, 

And  sing  the  glad  new  song  ! 
Till  all  are  gather'd  safely  home. 

Life's  work  and  duties  o'er. 
Then  father  and  the  boys  will  come. 

And  meet  to  part  no  more  ! 

No  need  for  tears — no  cause  for  fears — 

Death  as  a  friend  is  giv'n, 
We  sink  to  rise  beyond  the  skies — 

Our  meeting-place  is  Heaven  ! 
We  are  but  pilgrims  here  below — 

Sojourners  of  a  day — 
None  in  that  land  where  Christians  go 

Shall  ever  know  decay  ! 

KINDRED  SOULS. 

To  John  D.  Ross,  New  York,  who  wrote  an  extended  review  of  my  poems 
for  the  "  Home  Journal,"  which  encouraged  me  greatly. 

There  is  a  kinship  of  the  soul 

Known  to  the  good  and  true, 
Pulsive  as  needle  to  the  pole, — 

One  such  I've  found  in  you ; 


III 


I  I 


J 


s.  m 


242 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Friends  are  life's  chain  of  golden  links 
Let  down  from  Heaven  above, 

God  yet  will  w^eld  the  whole,  methinks, 
All  perfected  in  love  ! 


n 


h    1 


There  is  a  hope  more  sure  than  creeds. 

To  lead  us  home  to  God — 
The  daily  planting  of  good  deeds 

Shall  flower  Heaven's  virgin  sod  ; 
Each  aspiration  of  the  soul 

In  search  of  God  and  Truth, 
Leads  surely  to  that  happy  goal. 

Where  dwells  eternal  youth  ! 


f    • 


They  grow  not  old  that  Wisdom  love- 

Our  bodies  may  decay — 
But,  oh  !  leal  souls  shall  soar  above  ; 

Death  hastens  life's  birthday  ! 
Then  let  us  hold  our  Father's  hand. 

Like  children,  and  obey, — 
If  we  but  seek  to  understand, 

He'll  teach  us  by  the  way  ! 


ADVERSITY. 


;<:  ,t 


A  crucible,  in  which  to  purge  the  dross 

From  out  the  gold  of  friendship  leal  and  true. 
Testing  the  interest  men  may  have  in  j'ou, — 

Selfishness  or  Sacrifice  ? — Gain  or  Loss  ? 

Adversity's  a  friend,  in  stern  disguise, 
If  by  its  uses  thou  may'st  find  thy  foes, 
For,  until  then,  life  .ill  too  smoothly  flows, — 

Experience  is  a  teacher  to  the  wise  ! 

Trust  not  in  friends  till  thou  hast  found  them  strong 
When  thou  art  weak — cheerful  when  thou  art  glad- 


JOHN  IMRIE. 


243 


In  bonds  of  sympathy  when  thou  art  sad, — 
These  are  the  friends  that  tarry  with  thee  long  ! 
Adversity  will  put  false  friends  to  rout ; 
Thank  God  in  prayer,  for  having  found  them  out ! 


REVENGE. 

Dark-browed  "  Revenge,"— the  wicked  weakling's  plea. 

Too  oft  the  answer  to  a  noble  foe, 

Lulling  the  conscience  for  a  coward's  blow. 

He  dare  not  strike  when  other  eyes  may  see  ! 

To  take  a  mean  advantage  o'er  a  friend. 

Because  of  fancied  insult,  slight,  or  wrong. 

Can  never  build  a  nature  good  and  strong. 

And  oft  defeats  its  object  in  the  end  ! 

•'  Revenge  is  Sweet," — the  craven  coward  saith. 

And  skulking,  hides  himself  in  hell's  dark  hold, 

Then  steps  he  forth  with  venom-bated  breath  ! 

Revenge  makes  man  the  devil's  handy  slave. 

To  do  his  will,  and  fill  a  coward's  grave  ! 


IMI 


%M\ 


I 
i 


The  Canadian  School  Journal,  in  a  kindly  review  of 
Mr.  Imrie's  poems,  said : 

"  This  volume  will  find  its  true  place,  the  place  for 
which  it  is  intended,  in  many  a  home  and  heart.  Its 
simple  lays  breathe  throughout  the  spirit  of  rever- 
ence for  God,  loyalty  to  country,  and  regard  for  the 
delights  of  love,  home,  and  friendship.  As  such 
they  will  be  read  by  the  quiet  fireside,  and  minister 
pleasure  and  solace  to  many  homes  where  more 
elaborate  and  finished  productions,  with  less  heart  in 
them,  would  fail." 

In  conclusion  let  me  now  quote  a  very  excellent 


'li 


trr 


if 


'  ! 


I    ! 

l!     I 


H 

I; 


^- 


-? 


i:i: 


^. 


I.. 


^ 


.■-11 


l!:  ' 


III 


244 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


poetical  address  to  Mr.  Imrie  from  Donald  F.  Smith 
of  Camlachie,  Can. : 

A  SCOTCHMAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  JOHN   IMRIE, 
TORONTO'S  POET. 

John  Imrie,  ye're  a  gifted  chiel, 
Yer  clinkin'  sangs  I  loe  them  weel, 
Ye  iieedna  heed  the  woralt's  heel, 

Wi'  a'  her  wrangs, 
For  ye  could  earn  yer  meat  an'  meal 

Jest  writin'  sangs. 

There's  mony  poets  in  oor  Ian' 
Jest  made  o'  common  lime  an'  san', 
But,  Jock,  ye're  jest  the  mettel  drawn 

An'  shappit  weel, 
By  guid  Dame  Nater's  honest  han', 

Frae  head  to  heel. 

It's  sweetly  dae  ye  gar  it  clink, 
Wi'  pathos  yoked  to  ilka  link  ; 
Lang  may  yer  canty  muse  aye  blink 

Sae  blyth  an'  clear. 
Till  ye're  out  o'er  Parnassus'  brink 

Withoot  a  peer. 

Ye  dinna  praise  thae  daft  M.  P.'s 
Wha  hae  a  'nack  o'  tellin'  lees ; 
But  aye  ye  sing  the  muse  to  please 

As  suits  thysel', 
An'  how  ye  dae  it  wi'  sic  ease 

I  canna  tell. 


JOHN  IMRIE. 


»45 


Some  poets  praise  proud  fashion's  wiles, 

Or  court  aristocratic  smiles, 

An'  never  heed  the  han'  that  toils ; 

But  this  ye'll  grant 
Wherever  vanity  beguiles 

The  muse  is  scant. 


Gie  me  the  poet  wha  can  sing 

O'  Summer,  Autumn,  Winter.  Spring, 

Or  spread  with  a  majestic  wing 

The  patriot's  page, 
An',  hark,  ye'll  hear  his  echoes  ring 

Frae  age  to  age. 


: 


Gie  me  a  bardie  like  yersel', 
Ye  sing,  but  why  ye  canna'  tell, 
But  when  ye  tak  the  musey  spell 

Ye  hae  the  airt 
O'  touchin'  aye  the  inmost  cell 

O'  ilka  heart. 


\ 


If  critics  cock  their  crabbit  nose, 
Heed  not,  dear  Jock,  their  silly  prose  ; 
Just  turn  an'  trample  on  their  toes, 

They'll  tak  their  heels, 
There  but  a  set  o'  feeble  foes, — 

Satire  the  deils. 


An'  sud  ye  happin  on  sick  cattle 
We  ony  o'  their  ill-fatired  prattle. 
Ye  needna  try  wi'  honest  battle 

To  stop  their  chat, 
But  rhyme  satire  an'  let  it  rattle, — 

They'll  no  stan'  that. 


£ 


in 


246 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


If  ouy  o'  thein  nip  yer  line, 

An'  3'e  are  unco  set  for  time, 

Gie  me  the  wink — my  aid  is  thine — 

An'  faith  they'll  be 
Another  daft-like  herd  o'  swine 

Drooned  in  the  sea. 


So,  Imrie,  here's  to  you  this  nicht, 
An'  may  immortal  honors  bricht 
Crown  thee,  yea,  as  a  shining  licht, 

While  folk  in  throngs 
Wi'  kings  an'  princes  in  their  niicht 

Sing  loud  thy  songs. 


^s^ 


^•^Z;^ 


m 


n 


MNi 


ROBERT  REID. 


Conspicuous  among  the  more  prominent  poets 
who  have  left  the  shores  of  the  old  world  and  set- 
tled in  Canada  is  Robert  Reid,  or,  as  he  frequently 
loved  to  style  himself  in  his  younger  days,  "  Robert 
Wanlock. "  Gifted  by  nature  with  an  intense  poetic 
temperament  he  has  written  a  large  amount  of  true 
poetry  ;  poetry  that  will  live  and  be  read  long  after 
much  of  the  so-called  poetry  of  to-day  shall  have 
passed  into  oblivion.  At  the  age  of  twenty-four  he 
appeared  before  the  public  witli  a  volume  of  poems 
and  songs  entitled  "  Moorland  Rhymes."  Although 
he  was  for  many  years  previous  to  this  a  welcome 
contributor  to  the  poet's  corner  in  many  of  the  local 
newspapers  and  magazines,  he  was  comparatively 
unknown  to  the  literary  world,  but  the  superior  tone 
and  the  general  excellence  of  his  musings,  as  dis- 
played in  this  little  volume,  at  once  attracted  atten- 
tion everywhere.  He  was  hailed  by  the  press  as  a 
new  poet  of  a  high  order,  his  book  was  eagerly 
bought  up,  and  his  reputation  thus  established  has 
increased  with  each  succeeding  year  until  he  is  now 
classed  among  the  finest  of  the  Scottish  poets  domi- 
ciled abroad. 

There  is  certainly  much  for  the  lovers  of  poetry  to 
admire  both  in  "  Moorland  Rhymes"  and  in  '*  Poem 
Songs  and  Sonnets,"  the  latter  a  more  recently  pub- 


II 


i 


I' 


24S 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


lished  volume  by  Mr.  Reid.  Every  poem  in  these 
two  volumes  is  a  masterpiece  of  great  poetical 
beauty  and  sterling  literary  ability,  while  the  numer- 
ous lyrical  effusions  contained  in  them  are  of  an 
exceedingly  sweet  and  tender  nature  and  at  once 
impress  the  reader  with  the  fact  that  they  are  the 
choice  work  of  an  inspired  singer.  In  both  the 
poems  and  songs  nature  is  frequently  the  theme  but 
it  really  seems  as  if  it  was  the  voice  of  nature  itself 
that  we  are  listening  to,  so  graphic  and  striking  and 
true  is  it  in  all  its  details.  Simple,  easy-flowing, 
pleasant  verses,  happy  thoughts,  brilliant  similes, 
attractive  rhymes,  poems,  songs  and  sonnets,  on  the 
Covenanters,  on  Wallace,  Love,  Autumn,  Fame, 
and  various  other  kindred  topics,  constitute  an  intel- 
lectual treat  for  the  lover  of  Scottish  poetry  to  spend 
an  occasional  hour  over,  and  when  we  are  compelled 
to  put  aside  either  of  the  volumes,  we  close  it  gently 
and  lay  it  down  affectionately,  as  if  regretting  the 
necessity  of  having  to  part  company  with  it. 

Mr.  Reid  is  a  native  of  Wanlock,  Dumfriesshire, 
Scotland,  and  it  is  therefore  not  surprising  that  he  is 
an  ardent  admirer  of  the  Scottish  dialect  as  used  by 
Burns,  Scott,  Hogg,  Wilson,  and  many  others. 
Indeed,  the  majority  of  his  best  poems  are  written 
in  his  mother  tongue,  and  it  therefore  becomes  a 
difficult  matter  to  select  the  pieces  to  present  to 
American  readers  that  will  convey  to  them  a  correct 
idea  of  his  true  merits.  However,  here  is  a  pretty 
fair  specimen  of  his  powers : 


ROBERT  RE  ID. 


249 


these 

)etical 

umer- 

of  an 

:  once 

re  the 

th  the 

ne  but 

3  itself 

lyf  and 

owmg, 

iimiles, 
on  the 
Fame, 

n  intcl- 

) spend 

npelled 
gently 

.ng  the 

esshire, 
at  he  is 
ised  by 
others, 
written 
:omes  a 
sent   to 
correct 
\  pretty 


ENTERKIN. 

There's  a  glen  i'  the  far-afF  hills  o'  my  hame 

I'll  ne'er  forget ; 
A  glen  wi'  a  sweet  auld-farrant  name 

That  thrills  me  yet ; 
Thrills  me,  and  fills  me  wi'  nameless  joy, 
As  the  sicht  o't  did  when  a  dreamin'  boy, 
And  I  lay  at  e'en  on  the  gray  hillside. 
My  young  heart  loupin'  wi'  stouns'  o'  pride 
At  thocht  o'  the  ferlies  ye  had  seen — 
Warrior  and  martyr,  lover  and  freen' — 
A'  tint  noo  frae  the  hill-folk's  e'en  ! 
O  Enterkin,  I  hae  wandert  far 

Owre  land  and  sea, 
But,  sweetest  o'  a'  sweet  memories,  are 

My  dreams  o'  thee ; 
For  there,  i'  the  gowden  youthfu'  days 

O'  love  and  pride, 
Whtn  the  Sabbath  calm  had  husht  the  braes 

At  gloamin'  tide. 
The  forms  that  I  lo'ed  best  to  see 
Were  wont  to  dauner  at  e'en  wi'  me  ; 
The  kindly  auld  folks  led  the  way. 
But  watcht  that  we  didna  jouk  or  play  ; 
Sister,  and  brother,  and  comrade  dear. 
And  aiblins  a  sweet  young  stranger  here, 
Borrowed  frae  London  ance  a  year. 
O  blaw  thou  saft  on  her  bonnie  face, 

Thou  muirlan'  win', 
For  a  wiusomer  sicht  did  never  grace 

Grey  Enterkin  \ 

Then  streikit  at  ease  on  the  lane  glen-held, 

Oor  cracks  wad  be 
O'  the  dauntless  word  and  the  baulder  deed 

That  set  men  free  ; 


'il 


\'\ 


1 


u 


t~ 


.,  -i  - 
;  - 


\\\ 


U  I 


m 


2JO 


J 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Free  to  meet  i'  the  wilds  and  pray 
To  God,  i'  their  ain  wild  simple  way. 
Peacefu'  and  happy  is  Enterkin  ! 
A  lowner  glen  ye  wad  hardly  fin' ; 
A'body  comes  and  gangs  at  will, 
Safe  as  the  suulicht  on  the  hill, 
Never  a  heart  takes  tent  o'  ill, 
O  weel  may  the  auld  times  fill  wi'  tliocht 

Ilk  pensive  min', 
For  the  freedom  and  safety  there  were  bocht 

Wi'  bluid  lang  syne ! 
Baith  lanesome  and  laich  are  the  soun's  that  creep 

Through  Enterkin  ; 
Nocht  waur  than  the  bleat  o'  the  wild  hill  sheep 

Disturbs  the  glen, 
The  sugh  o'  the  win',  the  bumie's  moan, 
Or  the  cry  o'  the  whaup  on  Auchenlone  ; 
Little  ye'd  dream  o'  the  fearsome  day 
When  the  red-coats  fiU'd  yon  narrow  way. 
Where  the  men  o'  the  Covenant  took  their  stand 
For  the  martyr-faith  o'  their  native  land. 
And  stern  M' Michael  led  the  band. 
O  sweet  be  his  slumber  in  auld  Kirkbride, 

That  warrior  grim. 
For  the  half  o'  the  charm  o'  yon  gray  hillside 

Was  wrocht  by  him  ! 


Fu'  cheerily  there  on  the  lanesome  heichts 

The  lift  looks  doon, 
And  bauldy  up  i'  the  warm  sunlicht 

Ilk  hands  his  croon. 
Lowther  and  Stey  Gyle,  Auchenlone — 
Daintiest  hill  that  the  licht  looks  on — 
(Aft  hae  I  speel'd  its  benty  side 
Wi'  freeu's  noo  sindert  far  and  wide  !) 


ROBERT  REID. 


^5f 


While  bonnily  owre  baitli  burn  and  brae 
The  sklentin'  shadows  o'  e'eniii  play, 
And  syne  hap  a'  at  the  close  o'  day. 
O  surely  the  weird,  uncanny  skill 

O'  elfin  wand 
Ne'er  cuist  mair  glamour  on  howe  and  hill 
In  faery  land ! 


;ht 

creep 
lieep 


stand 


Iside 


O  saft  be  thy  music,  thou  wind  o'  the  west, 

In  Enterkin  ! 
And  shine  oot,  sun,  in  thy  splendor  drest, 

In  Enterkin ! 
A'  things  bonnie  and  hearthsome  be. 
Aye  like  a  halo  o'  joy  roun'  thee  ! 
And  in  the  hearts  o'  weary  men 
That  come  to  look  on  the  lanesome  glen, 
Peace,  like  the  peace  that  slumbers  there, 
Peace,  like  the  peace  that  follows  prayer. 
Fa'  like  the  dewdraps  unaware  ! 
O  fain  would  I  niffer  a  twouiond's  joy 

This  side  the  sea 
Tae  feel  as  I  felt  when  a  dreamin'  boy 
Langsyne  in  thee ! 

There  are  many  exquisite  thoughts,  besides  nu- 
merous lines  of  excellent  poetry  in  the  above  com- 
position, and  the  dialect  is  not  so  ancient  or  peculiar 
but  that  it  may  be  readily  understood  by  most 
American  readers.  But  among  the  best  and  the 
shorter  of  Mr.  Reid's  Scottish  poems  is  one  entitled 
"TheWhaup."  This  little  poem  has  been  praised 
and  quoted  far  and  wide,  and  it  is  without  doubt  a 
poem  of  great  beauty.     The  rhyme  is  perfect,  the 


I  ! 


;:!r- 


^5^ 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


V  V 


sentiment  tender  and  sweet,   and  fond  memories  of 
the  past  seem  to  crowd  upon  us  as  we  read  it: 


! 


I  III 


ij; 


i      I 


.■>■'  ti 


1 

1 

■ 

1 

1  i 

Ij 
Ij 

THE  WHAUP. 

Fu'  sweet  is  the  lilt  o'  the  laverock 

Frae  the  rim  o'  the  cJucl  at  tnoni ; 
The  merle  pipes  weel  in  his  midday  biel, 

In  the  heart  o'  the  bending  thorn. 
The  blythe,  bauld  sang  o'  the  mavis 

Rings  clear  in  the  gloamin'  sliaw  ; 
But  the  whaup's  wild  cry  in  the  gurly  sky 

O'  the  moorlan'  dings  them  a'. 

For  what's  in  the  lilt  o'  the  laverock 

To  touch  och  niair  than  the  ear? 
The  merle's  lown  craik  in  the  tangled  brake 

Can  start  nae  memories  dear  ; 
And  even  the  sang  o'  the  mavis 

But  waukens  a  love  dream  tame 
To  the  whaup's  wild  cry  on  the  breeze  blawn  by, 

Like  a  wanderin'  word  frae  hame. 

What  thochts  o'  the  lang,  grey  moorlan' 

Start  up  when  I  hear  that  cry  ! 
The  times  we  lay  on  the  heathery  brae 

At  the  well,  lang  syne  gane  dry  ; 
And  aye  as  we  spak'  o'  the  ferlies 

That  happen'd  afore  time  there, 
The  whaup's  lane  cry  on  the  win'  cam'  by 

Like  a  wild  thing  tint  in  the  air. 

And  though  I  hae  seen  mair  ferlies 

Than  grew  in  the  fancy  then, 
And  the  gowden  gleams  o'  the  boyish  dream 

Hae  clipped  frae  my  soberer  brain, 


ROIiERr  RE  ID. 


HS3 


Yet — even  yet — if  I  wander 

Alane  by  the  moorlan'  hill, 
That  queer,  wild  cry  frae  the  gurly  sky 

Can  tirl  my  heart  strings  still. 


wi 


In  his  purely  English  compositions,  however,  Mr. 
Reid  gives  further  ev^idence  of  his  being  in  a  high 
degree  gifted  with  the  true  poetic  faculty.  Such 
poems  as  "  The  Spirit  of  the  Moor,"  "The  Cairn  on 
the  Hill,'  "Here  and  Hereafter,"  "The  Poet  and 
His  Theme,"  "The  Two  Gates,"  "  Looking  Back," 
"Retrospect,"  "  Only  a  Dream,"  "Tired,"  "  Sum- 
mer and  Love,"  "Unfulfilled  Renown,"  and  many 
others  are  poems  o<:  distinguished  merit,  and  we  see 
at  a  glance  that  it  would  be  next  to  impossible  for  a 
mere  minor  poet  to  have  produced  them.  Their 
general  tone  is  good,  their  construction  elegant,  and 
a  discriminating  poetic  taste  pervades  them  all. 
Among  the  author's  other  English  compositions  is 
the  "Address  to  the  Soul."  This  is  a  well  conceived 
i<nen.^  and  it  contains  some  peculiar  thoughts  which 
aie  well  worth  studying.  It  also  proves  that  Mr. 
Reid's  religious  convictions  are  of  a  sii.cerc  and  last- 
ing character. 

ADDRESS  Tv)  THE  SOUL. 

O,  thou,  whate'er  thou  art,  whose  throne 

Is  centicd  in  the  life  of  me. 
Thou  silent  spirit  working  on 

In  bondage,  burning  to  be  free. 


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254 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Whence  comest  thou  ;  and  whither  go'st  ? 

Art  thou  some  wanderer  from  afar, 
Who  left  his  own  mysterious  coast, 

To  rule  my  being  like  a  star  ? 


iH 


And,  when  this  thralldom  is  no  more, 
Will  thou  at  once,  exultant,  spring 

Back  to  that  mystic  natal  shore, 

Clea.ing  the  dusk  on  viewless  wing? 


% 


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Fain  would  I  know  thy  birth  and  doom, 
Whose  presence  and  whose  power  are  such 

That  I  am  left  in  joy  or  gloom. 
By  the  weird  magic  of  thy  touch. 


I  ! 


';    I 


Art  thou  of  God  or  devil  born  ? 

Thy  smile  is  heaven,  thy  frown  is  hell, 
I  cannot  live  beneath  thy  scorn. 

But  in  ^\\y  love  I  long  to  dwell. 


Thou  art  a  finger  in  mine  eye, 
Forever  pointing  out  the  way, 

And  in  mine  ear  a  warning  cry. 

That  knows  not  silence,  night  or  day. 

And  when  I  sin  (as  mortals  will) 
Tbj^  secret  sorrow  moves  me  so, 

That  I  endure  in  every  thrill 
The  agony  of  utter  woe. 


N     I 


Or  if  to  good  I  should  incline, 
Thou  niakest  all  my  being  glad  ; 

The  soft  winds  blow,  the  sweet  suns  shine, 
And  I  for  very  mirth  am  mad. 


ROBERT  RE  ID. 


By  this,  I  think,  thou  art  from  heaven, 
Where  all  our  powers  for  good  are  born. 

For  uuto  what  man  e'er  was't  given 
To  find  sweet  grapes  upon  a  thorn. 


255 


^1  ! 


i 


Nay  more,  for  when  I  stand  with  Thee 
Where  Nature's  voice  is  stern  and  high, 

Beside  the  restless  turbid  sea, 
Or  'neath  the  black  tempestuous  sky,— 


When  all  the  elemental  force, 

Which  He  who  made  can  use  to  mar, 

Seems  battling  to  obstruct  the  course 
Earth  takes  around  her  central  star, — 

Or  in  lone  places  of  the  hills. 
Where  I  may  sit  me  down  to  rest, 

When  evening  calm  the  welkin  fills  : 
A  something  stirs  within  my  breast. 

And  stirring,  issues  forth  to  greet 

A  kindred  something  brooding  there ; 

And  while  they  hold  communion  sweet, 
I  know  that  God  is  in  the  air : 


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I  know  it,  and  I  worship  low. 
And  bless  Him  that  he  sent  me  thee 

The  greatest  gift  he  could  bestow, 
Eterne,  immortal,  even  as  He  ! 


|i 


Thou  art  the  one  thing  that  doth  part 
Me  from  all  other  life  that  is. 

That  still  keep'st  whispering  to  my  heart 
How  I  can  make  that  life  like  His. 


t  11 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


With  thee,  I  can  exult,  aspire  ; 

Without  thee,  I  were  but  a  clod  ; 
Thou  spark  from  the  Eternal  fire 

Blown  to  me  by  the  breath  of  God  ! 

One  of  the  daintiest  little  compositions  that  we 
have  met  with  for  some  time  will  be  found  in 
"Moorland  Rhymes,"  imder  the  title  of  *'At  the 
Garden  Gate."  It  has  the  true  poetic  ring  in  it,  and 
it  is  a  piece  of  poetical  work  of  which  the  author 
may  justly  feel  proud : 

The  moon,  like  a  shepherdess,  climbs  the  steeps 

Where  her  silent  flocks  of  stars  are  straying. 
And  lightly  down  through  the  dark-bine  deeps 

Her  cloudy  robes  on  the  breeze  are  playing  ; 
The  spell  of  the  night  is  on  mountain  and  main, 

Woodlands  and  waters  are  swathed  in  sleep  ; 
And  fitful  and  faint  on  the  night  wind's  wings 
Is  wafted  the  dirge  that  the  streamlet  sings, 

AS  it  glides  through  the  glen  to  its  grave  in  the  deep. 

Alone  by  the  garden-gate  as  I  stand 

I  think  of  the  night,  just  such  another. 
When  I  waited  here  to  touch  the  hand 

Dear  to  me  yet  above  all  other  : 
Just  so  did  the  moonlight  tip  the  trees  ; 

Just  so  the  night-wind  rose  and  fell ; 
Ah  me !  how  long  should  I  linger  now 
With  the  night-wind  stealing  across  my  brow. 

Ere  the  touch  of  that  hand  would  break  the  spell  ? 

As  has  already  been   stated   Mr.  Reid  is  a  native 
of  Wanlock,  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland.     He  was  born 


ROBERT  RE  ID. 


257 


on  the  eight  of  June,  1850.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he 
removed  to  Glasg^ow  and  entered  the  counting-house 
of  Messrs.  Stewart  and  MacDonald,  a  well-known 
manufacturing  firm  there.  Here,  we  imderstand, 
he  remained  for  four  vears,  after  which  he  removed 
to  Belfast,  Ireland.  A  year  later  he  returned  to 
Glasgow  and  entered  the  employment  of  the  late 
Mr.  William  Cross,  who  in  private  life  was  a  promi- 
nent song  writer  and  the  author  of  "The  Disrup- 
tion," etc.  In  1S77  he  sailed  for  Canada  and  he  has 
since  occupied  a  prominent  position  in  the  well- 
known  dry  goods  warehouse  of  Messrs.  Henry 
Morgan  &  Co.,  Montreal.  During  all  these  years, 
however,  he  has  steadily  kept  his  native  land  in 
view.  In  spirit  indeed  he  is  ever  there,  and  the 
hills  and  woods  and  glens  around  Wanlock  have 
furnished  the  inspiration  for  many  of  his  most  pleas- 
ing poems.     Of  his  birthplace  he  says: — 


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Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  o'  a  lanely  wee  toon, 
Far  hid  aniang  hilLs  o'  the  heather  sae  broon, 
Wi'  it's  hooses  reel-rail,  keekiii'  oot  at  ilk  turn 
Like  an  ill-cuisten  crap  in  the  howe  o'  the  burn  ; 
Ane  here  and  ane  there,  wi'  a  fit  road  atween, 
In  the  daftest  construction  that  ever  was  seen  ? 

O  there  the  cauld  winter  first  comes  wi'  his    n.rv, 
And  he  likes  it  sae  v.eel  that  he's  laith  tae  gae  "\va  ; 
For  there's  three  months  o'  bliiister  to  ilk  ane  o'  sun, 
And  the  dour  nippin'  crameuch's  maist  aye  'ii  thegrun'; 
Ay,  whiles  the  corn's  green  in  the  Lilians,  they  say, 
Or  the  hinmaist  srmw-wreath  dwines  awa  <n  the  brae. 


!||! 


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A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


-X     I  I 


Frae  mornin'  till  nicht  ye  wad  tentily  gang, 
And  no  hear  the  cheep  o'  a  hedge-sparrow's  sang, 
Nae  merle  at  e'enin'  his  melody  starts 
Tae  wauken  the  dream  in  the  lassies'  bit  hearts, 
Rnt  a  corbie's  maybe,  or  some  ither  as  stoor. 
Comes  by  wi'  a  waiif  o'  the  win'  frae  the  muir. 

Then  for  flow'rs  and  siclike,  there's  juist  no  sic  a  thing. 
Except  a  wheen  gowans  a  while  in  the  spring  ; 
And  the  twa-three  bit  busses  the  bodies  ca'  trees 
Ilae  an  auld-farrant  look  as  they  bend  in  the  breeze, 
And  scarce  want  the  gift  o'  the  gab  tae  proclaim 
They  reckon  this  solitude  ocht  but  their  hame. 

The  poem  from  which  the  above  extract  is  taken 
contains  no  less  thar  eighteen  stanzas,  all  of  them 
written  in  the  same  high-spirited  and  affectionate 
strain.  There  are  also  many  very  fine  descriptive 
passages  embodied  in  it,  and  it  is  in  all  respects  an 
excellent  and  creditable  production.  From  a  num- 
ber of  shorter  poems  on  the  same  subject  we  quote 
one  which  will  bear  favorable  comparison  with  it. 
The  title  is  '*  My  Ain  Hills,"  and  many  people  have 
a  sincere  liking  for  it,  in  some  cases  indeed  prefer- 
ring it  to  a  few  of  the  longer  poems: 

MY  AIN  HILLS. 

Tbe  bonnie  hills  o'  Waulock, 

I've  speilt  them  ane  an'  a', 
Baith  laich  and  heich,  and  stey  and  dreich. 

In  rain,  and  rowk,  and  snaw  ; 
And  ower  a'  ither  mountains 

Nane  else  e'er  bure  the  gree  ; 
Nae  peaks  that  rise  aneth  the  skies 

Can  raise  sic  thochts  in  me. 


ROBERT  RE  in. 


259 


I've  warslet  up  Ben  Lomond 

When  simmer  deck'd  its  side, 
And  gray  Goatfell  that  stan's  itsel' 

In  solitary  pride. 
But  frae  their  wildest  grandeur 

Wi'  sma  concern  I'd  turn 
To  ae  wee  glen,  wi'  some  I  ken, 

By  Wanlock's  wimplin'  burn. 


For  there  wi'  chiel's  far  sunder'd 

I  roved  in  glee  lang  syne, 
And  never  fit  was  lichter  yet 

Amang  the  muirs  than  mine. 
And  wi'  sic  shouts  o'  gladness 

We  startlet  hill  and  plain — 
I'd  tyne  a  year  o'  a'  things  here 

To  raise  the  like  again. 


! 


;    \ 


But  we  are  lads  nae  langer, 

And  time  is  gowd,  they  say  ; 
The  hills  sae  green  are  seldom  seen, 

When  ance  we  start  to  stray. 
And  mair  than  time  is  wanting. 

For  gin  we  a'  were  there — 
Wha  kens  ?  the  min'  micht  no  incline 

Its  former  sports  to  share. 


1 


\ 


O,  bonnie  hills  o'  Wanlock  ! 

What  pranks  auld  Time  does  play  ! 
I  kent  nae  change  in  a'  your  range 

When  I  cam'  here  the  day. 
But  faces  that  I  met  wi' 

Are  surely  alter 't  sair  ; 
And  some  I  ken  hae  left  the  glen 

We'll  never  meet  wi'  mair. 


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260 


A   CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


f      ! 


But  though  the  fit  may  wander, 

The  heart  can  aye  be  true, 
And  njony  a  yin  I  brawly  ken 

Wad  fain  be  here  e'enoo  ; 
And  mony  a  weary  comrade 

Like  jne  fu'  aften  prays 
That  the  bonnie  hills  o'  Wanlock 

May  see  his  hinmost  days. 

One  of  Mr.  Reid's  friends  writes  in  regard  to  this 
poem : 

"  There  v.i  a  warmth  of  heart  and  an  easy  natural- 
ness in  these  verses  which  are  very  refreshing-,  and 
the  sentiment  of  the  last  two  lines  I  know  is  sincere. 
In  a  letter  written  not  so  long  ago  ^Ir.  Reid  gave 
expression  to  the  hope  that  his  funeral  might  yet 
take  place  in  the  land  of  his  nativity — attended,  so 
he  said,  by  a  wheen  daicent  folks  with  grey  plaids 
on  their  honest  shoothers,  and  nae  mournin'  ony- 
where  aboot  them — except  in  their  hearts." 

Among  Mr.  Reid's  other  notable  Scottish  poems 
"MayMoril,"  "  Hame's  Aye  Hame,"  ''ASprigo' 
Heather,"  "Langsyne,"  "  The  Cottar's  Comfort," 
and  "Among  the  Brume,"  are  each  deserving  of 
mention.  In  all  of  them  the  Scottish  dialect  is 
freely  used  and  it  is  used  in  such  a  sweet  manner 
that  we  cannot  help  admiring  the  author's  good 
judgment  in  introducing  it  as  often  as  he  does  in  his 
work. 

Another  pleasing  feature  of  Mr.  Reid's  two  vol- 
umes is  the  large  number  of  sonnets  that  they  con- 


1  to  this 


ROBERT  RE  ID. 


j6i 


tain.  These  "finely  eiit  gems, "  as  they  have  been 
appropriately  termed  by  a  reviewer  of  his  books,  arc 
on  various  subjects,  "Heroism,"  "April,"  "Na- 
ture," "Blue  Bells,"  "  Singin^^/'  "Fame,"  and 
"Romance"  being  among  the  number.  He  seems 
to  take  kindly  to  this  particular  style  of  composition, 
and  as  a  rule  his  work  in  this  direction  is  marked  by 
much  skill,  originality  of  thought  and  purity  of  dic- 
tion,    A  specimen  may  be  here  given : 


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5h  poems 
Sprig  o' 
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3rving  of 
dialect  is 
manner 
:)r's  good 
oes  in  his 

i  two  vol- 
they  con- 


JAMES  HOGG. 

The  genial  shepherd,  full  of  boisterous  glee 
As  any  schoolboy — dreamer  of  fairy  dreams — 
Rapt  wanderer  by  lonely  glens  and  streams — 

More  than  all  else  had  he  the  making  o'  me. 

From  earliest  childhood  'twas  my  lot  to  be 
Charm'd  with  his  music  ;  with  the  witching  gleams 
He  caught  from  Elfland  ;  and  his  speech,  which  teems 

With  rustic  niirthfulness,  uncurbed  and  free. 

How  like  his  own  sweet  mountain  lark  he  seems  ! 
The  homely  garb-  the  lowly-fashion 'd  nest — 
Where,  all  night  long,  the  tender  parent  breast 

Warms  to  its  brood ;  but  when  the  morning's  beams 
Arouse  his  soul,  on  pinions  swift  and  strong, 

Soaring,  he  seeks  the  realms  of  deathless  song  ! 


Mr.     Robert 
"Thistledown/ 


Ford,  ihe  well-known  author  of 
"The  Harp  of  Perthshire,"  and 
various  other  valuable  Scottish  works,  says:  "  Reid 
is  beyond  question  the  most  gifted,  most  spontane- 
ous and  intensely  Scottish  singer,  after  Mr.  Thomas 
C.  Latto,  that  the  gold  of  America  has  yet  tempted 


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962 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


to  leave  his  native  shores.  He  has  the  heart  and  the 
head  of  a  true  poet,  and,  though  his  two  volumes 
will  not  fail  to  charm  us  for  many  a  day,  we  want 
more  from  the  same  fertile  source." 

Of  our  author's  later  work,  two  very  good  speci- 
mens may  be  found  in  the  following  poems  pub- 
lished very  recently  under  the  titles  of  "Bruce's 
Grave,"  and  "Ken  ye  the  Land?"  The  first  is  a 
sort  of  In  Memoriam  poem,  in  which  patriotic  and 
pious  thoughts  harmoniously  blend  together,  and 
the  result  is  a  lyrical  effusion  which  many  people 
consider  to  be  as  fine  a  piece  of  work  as  any  poet 
has  produced  on  the  subject  of  Scotland.  Both 
pieces  prove  that  the  poetic  gifts  entrusted  to  him 
have  been  lovingly  treasured  and  guarded  from  de- 
cay: 

BRUCE'S  GRAVE. 

Early — bright — transient — chaste  as  morning  dew, 
He  sparkled — was  exhaled — and  went  to  heaven. 

—  Young's  Night  Thoughts. 

Come  not  with  stern,  heroic  thought, 

And  pride  of  country  pulsing  high, 
Ye,  whom  a  glorious  name  has  caught 

And  stirred  to  ardor,  passing  by : 
Banish  at  once  the  lofty  dream 

Engender'd  as  that  name  is  told  ; — 
For  brave  exploits  are  not  my  theme, 

Nor  memories  of  the  days  of  old. 

Not  here  the  sacred  dust  is  laid 
To  Scotland  and  her  sons  so  dear ; 


ROBERT  RE  ID. 


^63 


The  iron  arm — the  kingly  head — 

The  dauntle.ss  heart — are  far  from  here  : 

In  his  own  land  the  hero  lies — 
That  greater  Bruce  that  made  us  men, 

Whose  fame  adds  lustre  to  her  skies, 
And  wakes  romance  in  every  glen. 


Well  might  I  sing  each  manly  deed. 

The  furious  charge — the  mighty  blow — 
That  turn'd  the  war  in  time  of  need, 

And  dealt  destruction  on  the  foe  ; 
For  deep  in  every  Scottish  breast 

The  thought  of  these  must  aye  abide, 
And  where  a  Bruce  is  laid  to  rest 

Must  ever  thrill  his  soul  with  pride. 


■1  3 


But,  with  each  patriot  impulse  check 'd. 

And  every  stormful  thought  put  by, 
Approach  this  little  grave,  bedeck'd 

With  flowers,  and  breathe  a  tender  sigh  ; 
For  purity  of  life  may  claim — 

As  well  as  force — memorial  tear  ; 
And  on  the  blazing  scroll  of  fame 

None  purer  shows  than  ended  here. 


w 


\\ 


'Twas  but  a  little  waif  of  Time 

The  wind  blew  darkling  to  our  door, 
Round-wrapt  with  love  from  some  sweet  clime. 

And  beauty  from  the  Shining  Shore  ; 
But  while  we  look'd,  and  long'd  to  keep 

The  wondrous  stranger  for  our  own, 
The  little  life  had  pass'd  to  sleep, 

And  with  it  all  our  hopes  had  flown. 


i 


T?    1 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


■rw 

2.0 


1.4 


1.8 


1.6 


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/, 


7 


Photograpliic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


& 
^ 


264 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Sleep  soft,  beloved  !    O  sweetly  rest, 

Unvexed  by  ony  evil  dream  ; 
A  little  lamb  on  Christ's  own  breast, 

Transfigur'd  in  th'  Eternal  beam  ! 
How  could  I,  even  in  my  grief, 

Begrudge  thee  to  those  circling  arms 
That  gave  thy  tender  soul  relief 

From  life,  and  all  its  vague  alarms  ? 

Now  lost  alike  to  hands  of  thine 

Are  all  earth's  paltry  tools  and  toys  ; 
Enough  for  them  the  flowers  to  twine. 

And  pluck  the  buds  of  Paradise  : 
And  those  wee  feet,  that  could  not  climb 

The  heather  hills  thy  father's  trod — 
Ah  !  they  have  scal'd  the  cliffs  sublime 

That  tower  around  the  throne  of  God. 


KEN  YE  THE  LAND  ? 

Ken  je  the  land  whaur  the  heather  bell 

Bonnily  busks  the  moorland  fell ; 

Whaur  briar  and  whin  on  the  braesides  blume, 

And  the  lintie  lilts  frae  her  bield  i'  the  brume  ; 

Ken  yc  the  kintra  ?     Brawly  I  ken  ; 

My  bairntime  passed  in  its  bonniest  glen. 

Ken  ye  the  land  whaur  the  black  cliiTs  rise 
Frae  the  Icchan's  edge  to  the  louttin'  skies  ; 
Whaur,  up  i'  the  craigs  on  the  mountain  sides, 
The  lordly  erne  yet  bigs  and  bides ; 
Hae  ye  seen  them,  Faither  ?    Aften,  boy ; 
I  hae  spiel'd  to  their  nests  for  a  youthfu'  ploy. 

Ken  ye  the  land  o*  the  kilt  and  plaid, 
The  buirdly  chield  and  the  winsome  maid 
That  gloamin'  airts  to  the  auld  thorn  tree, 


ROBERT  REID. 


^65 


To  haud  their  tryst  sae  couthie  and  slee  ; 
Ken  ye  ocht  o'  the  custom  ?    Ay,  uiy  bairn  ; 
O'  that  dear  land's  ways  I  hae  little  to  learn. 

Ken  ye  the  land  wliase  bards  hae  sung 
(An'  sweetly  too,  i'  their  ain  sweet  tongue) 
The  glorious  deeds  o'  her  warriors  stem, 
And  martyrs  laid  i'  their  lanely  cairn  ; 
Ken  ye  o'  them  ?  hae  ye  press'd  the  sod 
A  Burns,  a  Knox,  and  a  Wallace  trod  ? 

0  laddie,  hae  dune  wi'  your  quastens  vain  ! 
But  little  ye  trow  o'  the  yirnin'  pain 
That  lirks  in  a  neuk  o'  the  exile's  heart. 
And  a  look,  or  a  word  like  yours,  can  start ; 
That  wearifu'  pain  aye  waukens  in  me 
When  I  hear  ye  speak  o'  my  ain  couutrie. 

What  if  the  heather  be  wavin'  fair 

On  the  Scottish  hills,  if  I  binna  there  ? 

What  if  the  sweet  briar  scent  the  howes  ? 

Or  the  bonnie  "broom  o'  the  Cowdenknowes ?  " 

Or  if  linties  sing,  or  ernes  still  soar. 

Or  lovers  tryst,  as  in  days  of  yore  ? 

1  hae  made  the  bed  whaur  I  maun  lie. 
Though  it  gie  me  little  peace  or  joy  ; 
Sae,  lea'  me  to  dree  my  weird  alane, 

And  dream  o'  the  deeds  and  the  days  bygane  ; 
But  I  canna  speak — wi  a  heart  sae  sair — 
O'  the  hills  and  the  glens  I'll  see  nae  mair ! 


t 

I. 

i 


In  a  review  of  Mr.  Reid's  latest  volume,  *'  Poems, 
Songs  and  Sonnets,"  Mr.  John  Macfarland,  himself 
an  eminent  Scottish  poet,  says: 


; 


1 

m 

*  i 

Wt 

J' 5 

1^  * 

■ill 

i  ^ 

{ 

>.i 

'i 

"f 

h 

■    '•\ 

.:     I 


i^f' 


s 


i 


3 


'      fiii 


'Si  '         ■ 

i ' '  i 

1,5    ,         :    i 


ii   f 


266 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


"'Good  wine  needs  no  bush'  and  a  good  book 
requires  no  booming.  This  is  a  good  book  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  the  word.  Its  poetic  vintage  is  of 
the  best,  and  will  prove  an  invigorating  draught  to 
the  weary  soul  of  every  leal-hearted  Scot.  To  use 
the  words  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  about  *'  The 
Stickit  Minister" — '*It  refreshes  like  a  visit  home." 
Its  pages  are  steeped  in  the  bracing  atmosphere  of 
the  open  hillsides,  where  the  music  is  the  sighing  of 
the  mountain  bums  and  the  cry  of  the  curlew  and 
plover,  and  the  only  fragrance  that  of  the  wild 
thyme  and  the  purple  heather.  It  is  intensely  pat- 
riotic and  national,  and  emphasizes  as  no  recent 
contribution  to  native  literature  has  done,  that  exul- 
tant love  of  country  and  cohesive  spirit  of  a  race 
which,  more  than  anything  else,  constitutes  the 
strong  shield  of  a  nation's  life  and  welfare  against 
the  disintegration  of  modern  influences. 

But  it  is,  also,  a  remarkable  book,  in  that  it  opens 
up  a  new  vein,  or  one  never  before  so  adequately 
worked  out,  in  the  domain  of  Scottish  poetry.  Mr. 
Reid  has  been  named  "the  laureate  of  the  Scottish 
moors"  and  the  title  is  appropriate.  For,  although 
it  is  impossible  to  doubt  the  wealth  of  his  poetic 
dower  in  other  directions,  a  perusal  of  this  volume 
fully  warrants  our  belief  that  his  inspiration  is  at  its 
surest  and  best  when  his  foot  is  upon  his  moorland 
heath,  and  his  accents  are  the  accents  of  his  *  mither 
tongue.'  Such  unique,  and  we  might  almost  add 
unparalleled,  effusions  of  their  kind  as  "  Kirkbride," 


ROBERT  RE  ID. 


267 


book 
I  the 
is  of 
tit  to 
)  use 
'The 
»ine." 
ire  of 
ngof 
V  and 

wild 
jr  pat- 
recent 
;  exul- 

race 
;s  the 
gainst 


"The  Auld  Gray  Glen,"  "Wanlock,"  ♦  •  Storm-sted, " 
"Katie's  Well,"  "A  Dedication,"  "Hame's  aye 
Hame,"  "Glenballantyne,"  "Something  Wrang," 
"Enterkin,"  are,  to  my  mind  conclusive  proof  of 
this  fact,  and  of  themselves  are  sufficient  to  thor- 
oughly establish  the  reputation  of  the  poet  on  a 
lasting  basis. 

Many  of  the  sonnets  are,  also,  noticeable  for  the 
same  high  qualities  that  distinguish  the  pieces 
referred  to.  Could  anything  be  finer  in  its  way  than 
this  ? 

GLOAMING. 

The  hinmaist  whaup  has  quat  his  eerie  skirl, 

The  flichtering  gorcock  tae  his  cover  flown  ; 

Din  dwines  athort  Ibe  muir ;  the  win  sae  lown 
Can  scrimply  gar  the  stey  peat-reek  play  swirl 
Abnne  the  herd's  auld  bitld,  or  halflins  droon 

The  laich  seep-sabbin'  o'  the  burn  doon  by, 
That  deaves  the  corrie  wi'  its  wily  art  croon. 

I  wadna  niffer  sic  a  glisk — not  I — 
Here,  wi'  my  fit  on  ane  o'  Scotland  hills 

Heather  attour,  and  the  mirk  lift  owre  a'. 
For  foreign  ferly  or  for  unco  sight 
E'er  bragg'd  in  sang ;  mair  couthie  joy  distills 

Frae  this  than  glow'rin'  on  the  tropic  daw', 
Or  bleezin'  splendours  o'  the  norlan  nicht. 


i. 

I: 


To  a  stranger  traversing  for  the  first  time  those 
long  gray  stretches  of  sheep  pasture  or  moorland  in 
the  south  of  Scotland  there  is  nothing  more  start- 
ling than  the  weird,  unearthly  cry  of  the  gray  cur- 


268 


A  CLUSTER  OF  WETS. 


lew,  It  haunts  the  ear  with  a  strange  pertinacity 
for  days  after ;  but  it  is  hardly  more  haunting  than 
the  verses  in  which  Mr.  Reid  has  given  the  bird  an 
abiding  place  in  Scottish  song. 

In  his  series  of  historical  sonnet  oui  author  has 
supplied  a  long-felt  want,  and  accomplished  for 
Scotland,  to  a  certain  extent,  what  Wordsworth  and 
others  have  so  magnificently  performed  for  the  more 
imperial  pageant  of  English  history.  In  these  fine- 
ly-cut gems  he  has  clearly  and  concisely  expressed — 
caught  and  crystalized  so  to  speak — the  popular  sen- 
timent that  attaches  to  many  household  names  and 
stirring  events  in  the  annals  of  his  country,  and  for 
this  alone  his  countrymen,  both  at  home  and  abroad, 
owe  him  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude. 

From  among  the  portraits  in  this  gallery  we  ab- 
stract this  powerful  and  suggestive  silhouette  of 
"  Wallace  at  Stirling  Bridge:  " 

Colossal  shape  !  half  hidden  in  the  gloom 
Of  murky  centuries,  through  which  we  strain 
Pride-quicken'd  eyes  in  keen  attempts  to  gain 
A  clearer  vision  of  the  forms  that  loom 
In  that  far  distance  ;  pigmies  in  hosts  are  there 
Unknown,  unnoted  ;  but  thy  godlike  form 
Towers  majestic  through  the  hurtling  storm 
Of  battle ;  lo  !  thy  terrible  arm  is  bare, 
Dealing  destruction  on  thy  country's  foes ; 
With  swelling  hearts  we  view  its  matchless  force 
Sweep  all  before  it  in  its  glorious  course  ; 
And  as  the  tyrant  reels  beneath  its  blows — 
l*hy  visor  up — almost  we  can  descry 
The  deathless  sorrow  in  thy  steadfast  eye. 


ROBERT   REfD. 


26g 


•*  Poems,  Songs  and  Sonnets"  is  inscribed  to  Sir 
Donald  A.  Smith,  Hon.  President  of  the  Caledonian 
Society  of  Montreal,  "a  representative  Scot,  whose 
love  for  the  Old  Land  manifests  itself  on  every 
available  occasion. "  We  heartily  commend  the  book 
as  a  worthy  and  valuable  addition  to  every  Scots- 
man's library.  It  is  published  by  Alex.  Gardner 
Paisley." 

In  1895  Peter  Kinnear,  Esq.,  of  Albany,  N.  Y. — 
as  true  and  patriotic  a  Scot,  by  the  way,  as  there  is 
in  America — offered  a  prize  wreath  through  the 
North  American  United  Caledonian  Association,  for 
the  best  Scottish  poem  or  song  submitted  to  a  spec- 
ial committee,  which  the  association  was  to  appoint 
at  its  1896  meeting.  Needless  to  state  that  a  large 
number  both  of  poems  and  songs  was  duly  submit- 
ted and  carefully  examined  by  the  committee, 
Messrs.  Captain  James  Moir,  of  Scranton,  Pa.,  An- 
drew D.  Weir,  Esq.,  of  Pattenson,  Pa.,  and  Prof. 
Clark  Murray,  of  Montreal.  The  verdict  of  these 
gentlemen  placed  the  wreath  on  the  brow  of  Mr. 
Reid  and  I  have  now  great  pleasure  in  appending  a 
copy  of  this  very  tender  and  triily  mentorious  prize 
poem : 


1 
J 


KIRKBRIDE. 


[//  is  related  of  an  old  native  of  this  district  that  the  last 
request  he  made  while  on  his  deathbed  was  "  Bury  me  in  Kirk- 
bride^  for  there's  much  of  God's  redeemed  dust  lies  there ;'^ 
and,  taking  advantage  of  the  license  which  all  rhymers  are  apt 


2JO 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


to  arrogate  to  themselves,  J  have  put  the  beautiful  words  into 
the  mouth  of  an  old  Covenanter,  ivho  is  supposed  to  have  sur- 
vived the  persecution. — R.  R. 

Bury  me  in  Kirkbride,  * 

Where  the  Lord's  redeemed  nnes  He  ; 
The  auld  kirkyaird  on  the  grey  hillside, 

Under  the  open  sky  ; 

Under  the  open  sky, 
On  the  briest  o'  the  braes  sae  steep. 

And  side  by  side  wi'  the  banes  that  lie 
Streikt  there  in  their  hinmaist  sleep  : 
This  puir  dune  body  maun  sune  be  dust. 

But  it  thrills  wi'  a  stoun'  o*  pride, 
To  ken  it  may  mix  wi'  the  great  and  just, 

That  slumber  in  thee,  Kirkbride. 


i.i 


Little  o*  peace  or  rest 

Had  we,  that  hae  aften  stude 
Wi'  oor  face  to  the  foe  on  the  mountain's  crest, 

Sheddin'  oor  dear  heart's  blude  ; 

Sheddin'  oor  dear  heart's  blude 
For  the  richts  that  the  Covenant  claimed, 

And  ready  wi'  life  to  mak'  language  gude 
Gin  the  King  or  his  kirk  we  blamed ; 
And  aften  I  thocht  in  the  dismal  day 

We'd  never  see  gloamin'  tide, 
But  melt  like  the  cranreuch's  rime  that  lay 

I'  the  dawin,  abune  Kirkbride. 

But  gloamin'  fa's  at  last 

On  the  dour,  dreich,  dinsome  day, 
And  the  trouble  through  whilk  we  hae  safely  past 

Lea's  us  weary  and  wae ; 

Lea's  us  weary  and  wae. 
And  fain  to  be  laid,  limb-free, 


ROBERT  RE  ID. 


»Ti 


In  a  dreamless  dwawm  to  be  airtit  away 
To  the  shores  o'  the  crystal  sea  ; 
Par  frae  the  toil,  and  the  moil,  and  the  murk. 

And  the  tyrant's  cursed  pride, 
Row'd  in  a  wreath  o'  the  mists  that  lurk 

Heaven-sent,  aboot  auld  Kirkbride. 

Wheesht !  did  the  saft  win'  speak  ? 

Or  a  yaumerin'  nicht  bird  crj^? 
Did  I  dream  that  a  warm  haun'  touch'd  my  cheek, 

And  a  winsome  face  gade  by  ? 

And  a  winsome  face  gade  by, 
Wi'  a  far-aff  licht  in  its  een, 

A  licht  that  bude  come  frae  the  dazzlin'  sky. 
For  it  spak'  o'  the  starnies  sheen  : 
Age  may  be  donart,  and  dazed  and  blin'. 

But  I'se  warrant,  whate'er  betide, 
A  true  heart  there  made  tryst  wi'  my  ain, 
And  the  tryst-word  seemed  Kirkbride. 


Hark  !  frae  the  far  hill-taps 

And  laich  frae  the  lanesome  glen, 
Some  sweet  psalm  tune  like  a  late  dew  draps 

Its  wild  notes  doun  the  win' ; 

Its  wild  notes  doun  the  win', 
Wi'  a  kent  soun'  owre  my  min' 

For  we  sang't  on  the  muir,  a  wheen  huntit  men, 
Wi'  oor  lives  in  oor  haun'  langsyne ; 
But  never  a  voice  can  disturb  this  sang, 

Were  it  Claver'se  in  a'  his  pride. 
For  it's  raised  by  the  Lord's  ain  ransom'd  thrang 

Forgether'd  abune  Kirkbride. 

I  hear  May  Moril's  tongue 
That  I  wistna  to  hear  again. 


272 


A  CLUSTER  Ot  POETS. 


And  there — 'twas  the  black  McMichael's  rung 

Clear  in  the  closin'  strain, 

Clear  in  the  closin'  strain, 
Prae  his  big  heart,  bauld  and  true  : 

It  stirs  my  saul  as  in  days  bygane, 
When  his  gude  braidsword  he  drew  : 
I  needs  maun  be  aff  to  the  inuirs  ance  niair, 

For  he'll  miss  me  by  his  side  : 
r  the  thrang  o'  the  battle  I  aye  was  there, 

And  sae  maun  it  be  in  Kirkl)ride. 


m  I 


S  ■' 


Rax  me  a  staff  and  plaid, 

That  in  readiness  I  may  be. 
And  dinna  forget  that  The  Book  be  laid 

Open,  across  my  knee ; 

Open,  across  my  knee, 
And  a  text  close  by  my  thoom. 

And  tell  me  true,  for  I  scarce  can  see, 
That  the  word's  are,  "  Lo,  I  come  ;  " 
Then  carry  me  through  at  the  Cample  ford, 

And  up  by  the  lang  hillside. 
And  I'll  wait  for  the  comin'  o'  God,  the  Lord, 

In  a  neuk  o'  the  auld  Kirkbride  ! 


Ji' 


■'m 


REV.    BURTON  W.   LOCKHART,    I).  D. 


' 


Amoiigf  the  various  less  known  American  poets 
whose  writings  I  have  been  studying  of  late,  and 
from  which  I  acknowledge  having  received  much 
intellectual  enjoyment,  is  the  Rev.  Burton  Welleslcy 
Lockhart,  D.  D.,  the  beloved  and  highly  respected 
pastor  of  the  Franklin  Street  Congregational  Church, 
Manchester,  N.  H.  Like  many  other  tnie  poets, 
however,  and  especially  like  those  who  do  not  put 
their  pen  under  tribute  for  a  livelihood,  this  gentle- 
man's natural  modesty,  or  shall  I  call  it  lack  of 
confidence  in  his  own  abilities,  keeps  him  from 
appearing,  except  at  rare  intervals,  before  the  read- 
ing world,  as  a  writer  of  verses.  True,  he  is  not  a 
voluminous  writer,  and  he  makes  no  claim  to  the 
title  of  poet,  but  he  certainly  deserves  great  credit 
for  the  poems  he  has  produced.  Indeed,  I  entertain 
a  very  high  opinion  of  his  poetical  writings,  and  I 
can  conscientiously  point  to  all  of  his  pieces  as  being 
of  a  very  superior  order  of  merit.  Alexander  Smith 
in  one  of  his  delightful  essays,   "Men  of  Letters," 


says: 


ti 


I   would   rather    be    Charles   Lamb    than 


Charles  XIL  I  would  rather  be  remembered  by  a 
song  than  by  a  victory.  I  would  rather  build  a  fine 
sonnet  than  have  built  St.  Paul's.  I  would  rather 
be  the  discoverer  of  a  new  image  than  the  discover- 


li  '■> 


mi  ? 


'74 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


er  of  a  new  planet.  Fine  phrases  i  value  more  than 
banknotes.  I  have  ear  for  no  other  harmony  than 
the  harmony  of  words."  Dr.  Lockhart  might  easily 
and  appropriately  echo  these  sentiments  in  connec- 
tion with  his  own  writings,  as  they  abound  in  fine 
sonnets,  fine  phrases,  beautiful  images  and  similes. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  a  small  cluster  of  bright 
thoughts  gathered  at  random  from  his  various 
poems : 

One  vision  lingers  of  the  dawn, 
One  bell-voice  of  the  early  chime. 

The  chalice  of  the  wine  of  youth 

Still  pours  its  living  streams  ; 
And  lo !  we  mind  the  olden  truth, 

And  dream  the  early  dreams. 

We  felt 
The  sacramental  touch  of  God. 


I 


Pictures  that  gleam 
About  the  calm  horizon  of  our  life, 
In  gorgeous  setting. 

God  grant  that  when  our  hairs  are  gray- 
When  twilight  blurs  the  page. 

The  music  of  our  dawning  day 
May  charm  our  lonely  age  ! 

Bloom,  sweet  magnolia — orange  boughs. 
In  stranger  southland  fields  afar ; 

Ye  saw  her ;  mindless  of  our  vows. 
Asleep  beneath  the  Southern  star. 


'■  ^ 


REV.  BURTON  IV.  LOCK  HART,  P.  P. 


^75 


re  than 
y  than 
t  easily 
2onnec- 
in  fine 
similes, 
bright 
various 


Call  your  once  sky-colored  thought 
The  chaste  exordium  of  life's  meaning  speech, 
The  faultless  prelude  of  life's  deeper  song. 

Lo  !  here  is  truth  !  Lo  !  there  she  stands  ! 

Bow  down,  and  cry.  All  hail ! 
Still  she  looks  on  us,  far  withdrawn. 

With  stars  and  clouds  l)edight ; 
The  vision  of  our  spirit's  dawn, 

The  watchfire  of  oir-  ^ight. 


Was  summer  music  in  Iht  trees 
When  I  stood  lore  y  on  that  sb  /je 

Whe.  J  restful  lies,  oy  restless  :,eas. 
The  lov'd  one  I  can  see  no  more  ? 

In  early  life  I  rhymed,  and  sanjr  f  nd  dreamed  ; 
Haunted  the  woods  at  mom,  at  eve,  at  niqht, 
And  listened  to  the  tremulous,  whispering  leaves  ; 
The  rill  that  rippled,  and  the  dafiodil, 
That  bloom 'd,  had  mystic  language  for  my  soul. 

Our  theories  may  well  decay 
If  what  we  do  endures. 


Not  Burns  alone 
Gauged  ale-house  casks  for  bread,  when  his  high  muse 
Should  have  been  striking  flakes  of  living  fire 
From  rich  mosaics  of  ideal  worlds. 
We  do  it  better  now  ;  a  consulship 
Will  shelve  the  poet  in  him  as  completely. 

When  first  the  slave  of  bestial  wars, 

Before  his  soul  stood  awed, 
First  felt  the  glory  of  the  stars, 

And  sang  a  hymn  to  God. 


I 


H-- 


37^ 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


The  frequent-smattering  man, 
The  wide-read  miss,  who  glibly  talks  of  books, 
Conned  on  the  title-page — of  Milton  cilks — 
Sublime  ;  reading  a  fragmentary  sketch 
In  school  books — these  are  fitting  types  of  half 
The  educated  world. 


m 


m- 


H'l   I 


Many  of  Dr.  Lockhart's  poems  were  printed  in 
**The  Masque  of  Minstrels"  (a  book  of  excellent 
poetry,  and  one  which  I  have  already  noticed  in  con- 
nection with  the  poem,  of  the  Rev.  Arthur  John 
Lockhart. — (See  page  136). 

They  are  distinguished  by  great  beauty,  original- 
ity of  thought,  refined  taste,  choice  language,  and 
an  inspiring  moral  tone  which  cannot  be  too  highly 
commended.  His  sonnets  are  at  once  musical  and 
striking,  and  are  sufficient  to  prove  that  he  possesses 
poetical  talent  of  great  power.  Let  us  look  for  a 
moment  at  the  two  on  Wordsworth  and  Keats. 
These  are  among  the  earliest  of  his  compositions, 
but  he  need  never  hesitate  to  place  them  side  by 
side  with  the  w-ork  of  his  more  mature  years: 


I 


WORDSWORTH. 

Wordsworth  !  the  tender  rapture  of  thy  song 
Hath  touched  long-slumbering  chords  of  grief  and 

joy; 
Hath  poured  a  consecrating  light  along 

Those  days  when  I  too  roame<1,  a  passionate  boy, 
Courting  the  mountain  winds,  the  stars  on  high, 
Living  in  .sensuous  dreamy  phantasy — 
And  felt  the  power  of  river,  grove  and  sea, 


REV.  BURTON  \V.  LOCKHART,  D.  D. 


277 


ited  in 
xellent 
in  con- 
ir  John 

iriginal- 
ge,  and 
)  highly 
cal  and 
ossesses 
►k  for  a 
Keats, 
ositions, 
side  by- 


grief  and 


Leboy, 
igh. 


With  all  that  gives  delight  to  ear  or  eye, 
What  though  thy  full  experience  is  confined 

To  spirits  finely  toned,  who  can  aspire 
Above  faint  types  to  tlie  Eternal  Mind  ? 

Enough  !  My  soul  hath  caught  thy  lofty  fire, 
And  drawn  deep  lessons  fron:  those  years  that  lie 
Asleep  in  dreams  and  visions  of  immortality  ! 

KEATS. 

Poet!  who  roamest  in  a  fairyland. 

Too  rich  and  passionate  for  this  sober  earth. 
Thou  surely  hast  some  talismanic  wand, 

Or  genius,  of  a  more  than  mortal  birth, 
Who  steers  thy  bark  o'er  strange,  enchanted  seas, 
To  islands  fairer  than  th'  Hesperides  ; 

Where  thy  glad  eyes  do  wonderingJy  behold 
A  touch,  transmuting  e'en  the  rocks  to  gold. 
There  thro'  voluptuous  skies,  and  blooming  shades, 

An  unimaginable  glory  falls 
When  the  pale  moon  gleams  thro'  the  silver'd  glades, 
And  star-bom  halos  fill  their  verdurous  halls  ; 
And  mystic  music  trembles  to  and  fro, 
From  one  lone  nightingale  that  chanteth  soft  and  low. 

The  Rev.  Matthew  Richey  Knight  (editor  of  Can- 
ada and  himself  a  poet),  writing  a  sketch  on  *'  Pastor 
Felix"  in  the  Canadian  Methodist  Magazine,  says: 
'*  Eighteen  out  of  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight 
pieces  in  this  volume  were  written  by  the  younger 
brother,  Burton  W.  Lockhart.  A  few  quotations 
from  these  will  give  us  reason  to  regret  that  this 
younger  brother  has  not  given  more  encouragement 
to  his  poetical  powers,  and  made  frequent  excursions 


H 


i 


27S 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


with  the  muse.     Here  is  the  concluding  stanza  of 
"Bird  on  the  Sea:" 

There  is  hope,  there  is  joy,  for  a  wing  as  free 
And  a  heart  as  constant  as  One  above 

Hath  given  to  thee  ! 
To  the  ear  that  is  open,  to  the  eye  that  would  see, 
To  faith,  in  the  dark — in  the  sunshine,  love — 
There  is  never  despair,  for  with  God  we  move. 

Bird  on  the  sea  ! 


"The  Retrospect"  is  a  poem  read  before  the  an- 
nual meeting  of  the  Acadia  College  Alumni  in  June, 
1886.     I  quote  two  stanzas: 

Trust  thy  soul's  highest  vision — trust ! 

Think  not  to  touch  and  taste ; 
Time's  ancient  mystery — poor  dust ! 

For  thee  will  not  make  haste. 

Truth  comes  in  holy,  earnest  strife  : 

The  Hamlets  dream  and  die  : 
What  boots  on  Obermann's  sick  life, 

An  Amiel's  weary  cry? 

Dr.  Lockhart  has  been  a  student  of  the  poetic 
literature  of  all  ages  and  nations,  and  particularly 
of  the  English.  His  taste  is  classical  and  severe. 
Among  his  principal  favorites  he  names  Tennyson, 
whose  exquisite  art  and  fineness  of  temperament 
delight  him.  He  is  a  rapid,  omnivorous  reader,  and 
has  the  ability  of  penetrating  to  the  heart  of  any 
book  or  document,  and  getting  the  gist  and  kernel 


REV.  BURTON  W.  LOCKHART,  D.  D. 


279 


of  it.  He  keeps  abreast  of  the  thought  of  the  time, 
and  seeks  to  master  contemporary  problems,  philoso- 
phical, socialistic,  theological  and  religious. 

Among  the  poems  of  special  note  written  by  him, 
and  printed  in  the  Masque,  are:  "  Sir  Richard  Tren- 
ville,"  "Bird  on  the  Sea,"  *'The  Retrospect," 
'♦Talking  by  the  Sea,"  *' Wordsworth,"  ''In  Solemn 
Vision."  ''The  Singer,"  ''In  Memoriam,"  "The 
Old  Home,"  "Fragment  of  an  Epistle"  and  "To 
Abbie  in  Florida."  He  has  written  many  very  fine 
poems,  however,  since  these  were  published,  and  of 
these  we  give  two  brief  specimens: 


A  SONG  OF  LOVE. 

Love  sayeth  :  Sing  of  me ! 
What  else  is  worth  a  song  ? 

I  had  refrained 
Lest  I  should  do  Love  wrong. 


Clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart, 
I  prayed,  and  I  will  sing  ; 

But  all  I  gained 
Brought  to  my  word  no  wing. 

Stars,  sunshine,  seas  and  skies, 
Earth's  graves,  the  holy  hills 

Were  all  in  vain  ; 
No  breath  the  dumb  pipe  511s. 

I  dreamed  of  splendid  praise, 
And  Beauty,  watching  by 

Gray  shores  of  Pain : 
My  song  turned  to  a  sigh. 


2So 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


I  saw  in  virgin  eyes 
The  mother-warmth  that  makes 

The  dead  earth  quick 
In  ways  no  spring  awakes. 

No  song  !     In  vain  to  sight 

Life's  clear  arch-heavenward  sprang. 
Heart  still  or  sick — 

I  loved !  Ah,  then  I  sang  ! 

BIRTH  OF  MUSIC. 

When  and  where  was  Music  born  r 
When  the  strong  gods,  one  great  morn 
Made  for  man  a  heart  of  fire — 
Love,  with  infinite  desire. 

Ages  long  Love  wandered  dumb, 
Dreaming  on  the  things  to  come. 
Till  the  strong  gods,  quit  of  wrong, 
Crowned  her  lovliness  with  song. 


lid 


Like  his  brother,  the  Rev.  Arthur  John  Lockhart, 
he  has  been  a  denizen  of  of  the  Gaspereau  Valley, 
and  a  lover  of  that  sweet  scenic  river.  This  he  sings 
in  one  of  his  potms  entitled  '* Gaspereau:  " 

Eight  years !    It  seems  not  long  ago — 

Comrades  who  walked  with  me  ! 
Since  last  we  watch 'd  the  Gaspereau 

Flow  singing  to  the  sea. 

O  pensive  walks,  when  trees  were  full, 

Under  the  harvest  moon  ! 
Long  thoughts,  by  river  beautiful 

As  Burns'  Bonny  Doon. 


REV.  BURTON  W.  LOCKIIART.  D.  D. 


2S1 


The  orchards  blossom  white  as  foam, 

The  air  with  nectar  fills  : 
Once  more  we  laugh  and  dream  and  roam 

In  sunshine  cr  the  hills, 

O  rich  in  hope  !     O  brave  in  deed  ! 

Those  days  are  gone  forever  ; 
And  yet,  unchanged,  the  blooming  mead 

Smiles  on  its  lisping  river. 


Dr.  Lockhart  was  born  on  the  twenty-fourth  of 
January,  1855,  at  Lockhartville,  township  of  Horton, 
county  of  Kings,  Nova  Scotia  (the  heart  of  the  Aca- 
dian country).  He  is  the  third  child  of  a  family  of 
seven.  His  father,  Nathan  Albert  Lockhart,  was  a 
master  mariner  and  died  only  last  year.  He  was  of 
Scotch  and  En^^-lish  ancestry,  while  the  mother, 
Elizabeth  Ann  Bezanson,  of  Chester,  N.  S.,  is  of 
Scotch  and  Huguenot  descent.  There  stirs  in  our 
author's  veins  the  blood  of  certain  resolute  Hugue- 
nots, who  left  the  old  town  of  Besancon,  France,  on 
the  revocation  of  the  edict  of  Nantes,  "choosing 
exile  and  poverty  with  freedom,  faith  aTid  conscience 
rather  than  titles  and  landed  estates  without.  "  It 
is  related  of  his  ancestor,  Benson,  that  he  rode  from 
Paris  to  Switzerland  with  his  bride  on  horseback  and 
later  came  to  the  British  provinces  where  there  was 
religious  liberty.  Dr.  Lockhart  received  a  good 
edtication  and  began  teaching  while  yet  a  youth  at 
college.  He  afterwards  entered  Acadia  College, 
Wolfville,  a  Baptist  institution  from  which  in  due 


Z82 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


time  he  graduated  with  high  honors.  After  preach- 
ing for  one  year  and  three  months  at  Lockport,  N. 
S.,  he  took  another  course  of  religious  instruction  at 
the  Newton  Theological  Seminary  and  then  became 
pastor  of  the  Baptist  Church,  Suffield,  Conn.  Here 
he  married  Miss  Frances  M.  Upson,  preceptress  of  the 
Classical  Institution,  a  lady  in  all  respects  his  equal 
and  as  worthy  a  companion  for  him  as  he  was  for 
her.  In  1888  he  experienced  a  change  of  faith, 
having  become  more  in  sympathy  with  the  liberal 
conservative  element  in  Congregationalism.  He  also 
at  this  time  removed  to  Chicopee,  Mass. ,  where  he 
ministered  for  some  time  to  a  large  congregation. 
Dr.  Trask,  of  Springfield,  writing  of  him  at  this 
time,  says: — 

**  Perhaps  no  preacher  in  the  little  city  to  the  north 
of  us  has  so  many  strangers  in  his  congregation 
drawn  by  his  pulpit  power.  .  .  .  It  is  a  rare 
Sunday  when  there  are  not  some  Springfield  people 
in  the  audience.  .  .  .  There  are  also  a  number 
who  come  down  regularly  from  the  Falls,  while 
visitors  from  the  street,  Willimansett  and  West 
Springfield,  are  not  infrequent.  Dr.  Lockhart  is 
now  in  the  full  prime  of  life,  and  his  studies  in  phil- 
osophy and  general  literature,  no  less  than  in  relig- 
ion, combine  to  make  him  not  only  a  pleasing 
conversationalist,   but  an  instructive  and  inspiring 

preacher His  parishioners  in  all  of  the 

pastorates  he  has  filled  have  loved  him  intensely. 
His  gentleness  of  spirit,  united  with  rare  intellectual 


i  ! 


REV,  BURTON  W.  LOCKHART,  D.  D. 


'33 


powers,  captivates  his  audience.  He  has  humanity, 
as  the  phrenologists  would  say,  in  a  large  degree, 
and  his  people  feel  it.  He  has  a  keen,  searching 
mind,  and  his  people  know  it,  so  that  he  is  both  be- 
loved and  admired.  Literature  is  pastime,  preaching 
his  passion.  He  loves  philosophy,  but  truth  he 
adores.  A  finely-shaped  and  good-sized  head,  fea- 
tures clear  and  well-cut,  the  eyes  large  and  dark  and 
suffused  with  a  mellow  and  attractive  light,  are  the 
elements  of  Dr.  Lockhart's  physical  appearance, 
which  are  the  most  impressive  and  commanding. 
As  one  of  his  parishioners  expressed  it,  '  He  is  the 
biggest  man  of  his  size  I  ever  saw.'"  He  was 
installed  as  pastor  of  the  Franklin  Street  Congrega- 
tional Church,  Manchester,  New  Hampshire,  Janu- 
ary 24,  1894. 

And  later  on  Dr.  Trask  gives  us  still  a  further 
insight  into  Lockhart's  character  and  writings  in  the 
following  graphic  language:  *' He  has  that  rare 
faculty  which  rhetoricians  call  vision — the  power  of 
seeing  abstract  things  as  if  they  were  alive,  and 
hence  he  is  never  dull  or  commonplace.  If  his  eyes 
are  open,  so  that  he  preaches  by  sight,  his  inner 
vision  is  open  also,  and  he  speaks  by  insight,  too. 
He  is  a  poet — ^not  that  he  indulges  largely  in  rhyme, 
although  he  has  written  verse  which  is  fine,  both 
in  quality  and  in  finish,  but  he  sees  truth  in  pictures, 
and  all  his  illustrations  and  much  of  his  diction  have 
a  rich  poetic  charm.  There  is  newness  in  all  his 
work.     ...     He  has  range  and  breadth,  and  im- 


t 


I   I 


Mi4 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


J•■^;t^S 


presses  you  as  being  an  original  investigator  and 
thinker.  He  is  never  obscure.  The  sunlight  plays 
in  every  sentence.  His  simplicity  is  strength.  His 
genial  temperament  makes  him  a  cheerful  speaker. 
He  leaves  no  gloom  on  the  spirit  as  it  goes  back 
into  the  hard,  grinding  world.  .  .  .  He  believes 
not  only  in  sunlight  but  in  sunshine.  A  subtle 
humor  pervades  many  a  sentence.  A  little  shaft  of 
satire  sometimes  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  thought, 
or  a  bit  of  irony  arrests  the  attention.  But  the  gen- 
eral impression  is  that  of  a  serious  and  reverent 
thinker,  whose  clear  mind  and  sincere  heart  are 
speaking  in  the  calm  impressive  tone  of  a  persuasive 
and  mobile  voice.  When  he  has  finished  you  feel 
that  you  have  been  listening  not  only  to  a  sermon 
but  to  a  man. 

Dr.  Lockhart  became  pastor  of  the  Franklin  Street 
Congregational ist  Church,  Manchester,  N.  H.,  on 
January  24,  1894.  Here  is  his  latest  composition, 
a  compliment  to  the  town  where  he  now  resides  : 


HYMN. 


SUNG  AT  THE  SEMI-CENTENNIAI.  CEIyEBRATlON    OF    THE     IN- 
CORPORATION OF  MANCHESTER,   N.    H. 

Queen  City  of  the  Granite  State, 
Great  be  thy  soul  as  thou  art  great : 
Thy  nurturing  hills  sweep  round  thee  free, 
Thy  river  floweth  to  the  sea. 

The  ramparts  of  the  I^ord  thy  God 
Guard  thee  by  day  and  night  uuawed, 


REV.  BURTON  W.  LOCK  HART,  D.  D. 


285 


Their  purple  banners  high  unfurled 
Greet  each  new  morning  of  the  world. 

Great  God  !  we  lift  this  hymn  of  praise 
To  Thee  who  measurest  out  our  days — 
The  Lord  of  all  that  live  and  die, 
At  whose  command  the  centuries  fly. 


For  fifty  proud  triumphant  years, 
For  wealth  that  cost  not  bloo<l  nor  tears, 
For  the  high  hopes  that  kept  us  yoimg, 
For  noble  griefs  that  made  us  strong. 

For  peace  that  brooded  like  a  dove, 
For  household  plenty,  joy  and  love, 
For  freedom  won  in  glorious  strife. 
For  life  that  cost  our  best  of  life. 

For  old  heroic  memories, 

Borne  to  us  from  the  distant  days. 

And  for  our  holy  quiet  graves, 

Where  the  wind  whispers  in  the  leaves. 

For  greater  hopes  that  led  us  on. 
For  splendid  dreams  of  days  to  come, 
When  purer  faiths  and  truer  creeds 
Shall  blossom  into  kindlier  deeds. 

For  these  we  lift  this  hymn  of  praise 
To  Thee  who  measurest  out  our  days, 
The  lord  of  all  that  live  and  die. 
At  whose  command  the  centuries  fly. 

Queen  City  of  the  Granite  State 
Great  be  thy  soul  as  thou  art  great ; 
Thy  nurturing  hills  sweep  round  thee  free. 
Thy  river  floweth  to  the  sea. 


»86 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


It  is  unnecessary  for  us  to  say  anything  further 
in  connection  with  the  ministry  of  Dr.  Lockhart 
after  the  glowing  words  already  quoted  of  Dr.  Trask. 
We  have  recorded  our  opinion  of  him  as  a  poet, 
and  we  will  now  conclude  with  a  stanza  from  one 
of  his  talented  brother's  well-known  poems : 

Still  let  thy  rustic,  untaught  muse 

Tune  his  wild  harp  from  every  spray, 
Mimic  the  notes  the  wild  birds  use, 

Weaving  a  sweet  and  artless  lay  ; 
And  though  no  grand  applause  be  given — 

Though  Fame  no  laurel  wreath  accord. 
The  meaning  song  shall  rise  to  heaven. 

And  I/>ve  shall  bring  her  own  reward. 


I  i;  i 


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rask. 
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|iH|!|i|l|; 

,^|^MU||, 

Hi 

IF\  1 

Hra      '  1^^ 

HHi'  'S 

WILLIAM  T.  JAMKvS. 


1 J 


WILLIAM.  T.  JAMES. 


Mr.  James  was  born  in  Cheltenham,  England, 
February  2 2d,  1861.  His  life  thus  far  has  been  a 
varied  and  rather  eventful  one.  While  yet  on  the 
callow  side  of  twenty,  he  slipped  away  from  home  to 
gratify  a  desire  for  adventure,  and  was  next  heard 
of  in  London,  where  he  had  landed  from  an  ocean 
voyage.  Induced  to  return  to  his  father  in  Here- 
ford, before  a  year  had  elapsed  he  was  off  again, 
and  from  that  time  until  he  came  to  anchor  in  the 
harbor  of  wedlock  he  led  a  roving  life,  travelling 
extensively  in  England,  Ireland,  Wales,  Spain,  Por- 
tugal and  the  United  States.  A  printer  by  trade, 
he,  like  Walt.  Whitman,  found  this  occupation  suit- 
able to  his  itinerant  habits.  "  If  I  can't  write  books 
I'll  print  them,"  he  said,  on  beginning  his  appren- 
ticeship ;  and  not  only  has  he  fulfilled  this  declara- 
tion, but,  as  the  proprietor  of  a  printing  office  in 
Toronto,  Canada,  he  has  had  the  additional  satisfac- 
tion of  printing  and  publishing  some  of  his  own  lit- 
erary productions. 

Poetical  and  prose  contributions  to  various  periodi- 
cals led  to  the  publication  of  his  *'  Rhymes  Afloat 
and  Afield"  in  1891.  Although  the  author  thinks 
the  book  contains  many  blemishes  and  some  evi- 
dence of  hasty  preparation,  it  was  received  by  the 
critics'  with  more  than  ordinary  favor.     It  is  certain- 


ii 


I 


^ 


h 


2SS 


A  CLUSTER  OF  /VETS. 


Ah 


ly  a  very  commendable  book  of  skilfully  turned 
verse,  its  chief  merit  being  the  picturesque  and 
realistic  character  of  its  subject-matter,  its  unaffect- 
ed naturalness  and  simplicity,  and  a  virility  of  ex- 
pression which  appeals  strongly  to  the  imagination. 

In  his  nautical  poems  there  are  spontaneity,  buoy- 
ancy and  vigor  besides  a  wholesome,  refreshing 
flavor  that  smacks  of  the  "breezy  blue."  Indeed, 
not  to  appreciate  these  is  to  evince  indifference  to 
everything  germane  to  salt  water. 

Perhaps  the  best  indication  of  Mr.  James'  standing 
in  the  literary  world  is  the  fact  that  he  has  contribu- 
ted to  T/ic  Century  Magazine ^  Leslie^ s  Illustrated 
Weekly,  Puck,  The  Metaphysical  Magazine,  The  Cana- 
dian Magazine,  The  Week,  Walsh's  Magazine  and 
other  American  and  Canadian  publications  too  nu- 
merous to  mention. 

Of  the  poems  which  accompany  this  sketch,  the 
reader  is  able  to  judge  for  himself. 

Since  the  publication  of  this  book,  however,  Mr. 
James — not  satisfied  with  first  efforts — has  set  assid- 
uously to  work  at  the  revision  of  its  contents,  which, 
in  th^ir  improved  form,  together  with  many  later 
compositions  of  undoubted  excellence,  should  some 
day  make  a  volunie  of  goodly  size  and  place  him  in 
a  still  higher  position  among  the  Canadian  litera- 
teurs. 

WAITING. 

Ah  !  me.     The  day,  for  years  desired,  is  spent — 
This  festival,  which  should  my  love  restore. 


WILIJAM  T.JAMES. 


2Sg 


O  love-lorn  heart,  who  wooed  with  blandishment, 
Is  lost  to  thee — is  lost  forevertnore  : 

The  reckoned  time  is  o'er. 

The  beach  the  hour  appointed  knows,  and  yearns 
To  feel  the  cool  in  j^  torrent  on  its  breast ; 

Not  once  it  ebbs,  but  duly  it  returns 
At  turn  of  tide,  and  will  not  be  repressed  : 
Untrue  my  pli«;hted  j^uest ! 

IIow  eagerly  the  earth  awaits  the  sun, 
And  doffs  her  j?arb  of  shadow  to  assume 

A  mantle  green,  with  blossoms  interspun, 
And  r.ees  with  joy  his  countenance  illume 
All  that  he  left  in  gloom. 

Yet  am  I  still  awaiting  him  I  love, 

Altliough  the  hour  is  past  when  he  should  come. 
I,ike  a  forlorn  and  mateless  turtle-dove, 

I  sit  and  pine  within  a  cheerless  home. 
Disconsolate  and  dumb. 

All  through  the  term  of  loneliness  I  kept 

A  faithful  vigil,  I  can  truly  say; 
In  dreams  for  him  still  yearning  as  I  slept ; 

In  sleepless  watches  sighing  time  away, 
Kxpectaut  of  to-day. 

To-day,  alas  !  is  almost  yesterday, 

And  he — false  one  ! — in  absence  lingers  yet, 

Nor  comes  his  debt  of  promises  to  pay. 

Could  he,  in  life,  that  solemn  pledge  forget? 
Owes  he  another  debt  ? 


m 


O  jealous  heart !  In  mercy  make  excuse, 
Nor  let  thy  passions  riot  o'er  this  slight. 


2^ 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


1  <j 


fH' 


n 


1 1 


Why  sharpen  words  to  v/eapons  of  abuse  ? 
Hope  yet  a  little  till  has  taken  flight 

Th'  eleventh  hour  of  night. 

Bethink  thee  of  the  neap-tide's  fickle  flow — 
How  many  leagues  of  strand  await  in  vain 

Its  sulky  waves,  that  half-way  come  and  go 
Until  by  moon  propitious  swelled  again. 
Judge  harshly  not  thy  swain. 

Remember  seasons,  too,  of  rain  and  gloom, 
When  clouds  obscure  the  sun  and  earth  is  drear. 

Blame  not  the  orb  that  should  the  sky  illume  : 
It  shineth  constantly ;  the  atmosphere 
The  morrow  maketh  clear. 

Who  knows  what  hindrance  may  have  thwarted  haste  ? 

Oft  trifles  have  a  journey  long  delayed. 
I'll  trim  the  lamp  within  the  casement  placed, 
•     Lest  he  shall  say  he  in  the  darkness  strayed, 
And  bide  me,  undismayed. 

What  sound  was  that— the  opening  of  the  gate  ? 

A  footstep  ?    Yes  !    It  halts — I  hear  a  knock  ! 
O  love  !  thrice  welcome,  though  thou  contest  late. 

And  chimes  the  midnight  from  the  steeple  clock. 
I  will  the  door  unlock. 

A  DRIFTING  ICEBERG. 

A  crystal  mountain  on  the  azure  wave. 
Bald  as  to  verdure,  but  aflame  with  hues. 
Its  gorgeous  splendor  of  prismatic  light 
Reflects  the  radiance  of  an  Arctic  night 
Upon  the  liquid  path  of  its  lone  cruise  ; 
While  Boreas  from  each  green,  abyssmal  cave 
Evokes  the  shrieks  of  long-imprisoned  gnomes, 


WILLIAM  T.  JAME^. 


2^1 


And  steers  them  and  their  island  day  by  day, 
With  grim  persistence,  to  a  Southern  clime, 
Where  ponderous  peak  and  pinnacle  sublime 

Shall  dwindle  slowly  till  they  melt  away. 
Down  from  the  North  majestically  it  comes : 

At  times  in  view  of  travellers'  raptured  eyes, 

And  often  insulated  by  the  skies. 

THE  DAWN  OF  A  NEW  ERA. 

AN  AI,I«EGORY. 

I  looked  upon  the  world,  and  lo ! 

A  ghastly  mount,  whose  streams  were  blood. 
Rose,  writhing,  from  the  plains  below. 

All  sodden  with  its  crimson  flood. 

Upon  its  summit  was  a  throne 
Of  hideous  skulls,  and  on  it  sate 

A  man  whose  higher  self  had  flown — 
The  genius  of  a  world  of  hate. 

Up — up  its  quivering  slopes  there  pressed 
An  eager  but  a  heartless  throng, 

Who  knew  not  love,  nor  peace,  nor  rest. 
And  he  who  led  them  on  was  Wrong. 

From  many  hearts  and  heartlis  laid  waste. 
From  peaceful  dynasties  o'erthrown. 

They  upward  bore,  with  eager  haste, 
The  trophies  they  had  fought  to  own. 

And  laid  their  wrested  tribute  down 
Before  the  soulless  one,  their  king. 

'Midst  spoils  of  many  a  plundered  town, 
I  saw  a  ravished  matron's  ring ; 


^S.fi' 


2g2 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


:i{  w 


And  wealth  untold  from  city  marts, 
The  j^ains  of  j^reed,  the  price  of  l)loo<l ; 

Tnith,  honor,  wisdom,  children's  hearts  ; 
Virtue  deflowered  while  in  the  hud — 

All  piled  in  one  promiscuous  heap. 
The  price  that  wanton  Pride  will  pay 

I'^or  power  and  place,  though  it  should  reap 
Its  .sins  in  sorrow  in  their  day. 

Then  he,  the  kinjj  of  worldly  fame, 
Ik'gan  to  mete  out  their  reward  : 

To  some  lie  gave  a  sounding  name  ; 
To  some  with  reputation  marred. 

He  granted  license  to  control 

The  tongues  of  men  to  vaunt  their  praise  ; 
To  them  who  lacked  a  noble  soul 

He  gave  the  gift  of  courtly  phrase  ; 


U'i 


To  some  a  title  to  bequeath, 
Won  in  a  fierce,  rapacious  fight ; 

On  many  a  brow  he  placed  a  wreath 
Of  flowers  that  faded  ere  the  night. 


And  whatsoever  thing  they  sought, 
They  paid  the  price  and  gained  their  end  ; 

But  greater  curse  was  seldom  bought 
Than  riches  purchased  with  a  friend. 

When  all  were  served,  not  one  was  pleased. 

One  had  a  crown,  yet  felt  remorse  ; 
Another  wealth,  but  was  diseased  ; 

Who  had  a  carriage,  craved  a  horse. 


WILLIAM  T.  JAMES. 


^93 


And  so  they  fell  to  figlitinj^  hard, 
And  maiij^led  whom  they  could  not  slay  ; 

Non«  were  content  with  their  reward, 
For  none  had  walked  in  Wisdom's  way. 

Up  from  the  stones  I  heard  a  groan, 
And  when  I  looked  at  them  a;^ain, 

I  cried  to  him  upon  the  throne  : 
"  liciwld  these  writhing  stones  arc  tncn  !  " 

He  answered  with  a  mockin;:?  lauph  : 
"  Know  ye,  the  road  thnt  leads  to  fame 

Is  paved  with  mankind's  nether  half, 
Whom  they  may  bruise  who  crave  a  name." 

I  stood  aj^hast  in  speechless  pain  ; 

I  felt  the  anguish  of  the  stones  ; 
I  saw  the  millions  war  has  slain, 

And  then  I  cried  in  piercing  tones  : 

•*  How  long,  O  God,  shall  these  things  be? 

When  will  Thy  hand  avenge  the  weak  ? 
How  long  this  nightmare  misery  ? 

Speak,  Spirit  of  Thy  Justice,  speak  ! ' ' 

I  listened,  and  I  heard  a  voice — 
A  btill  small  voice  within  my  breast, 

That  said  propheticall)- :  "  Rejoice  ! 
The  clouds  are  clearing  in  the  West. 


"  The  gleams  of  a  new  era  break 
Athwart  these  portents  of  decay, 

Though  mighty  truths  the  world  must  shake 
Ere  darkness  brightens  into  day. 


"    f  ! 


^4 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


"  What  time  that  halcyon  day  shall  burst 

In  splendor  on  the  suffering  rife, 
The  follies  mankind  long  have  nursed  ; 
.  Oppression — fruitful  cause  of  strife  ; 


*'  The  basic  selfishness  of  man 

(The  motive  whence  his  actions  spring) ; 
The  envy  screened  by  Fashion's  fan, 

Or  shown  by  him  who  stabs  a  king  ; 

' '  The  wretched  poverty  of  love  ; 

The  squalor  of  the  human  heart ; 
The  ignorance  of  things  above 

Trade,  gossip,  reason,  science,  art ; 


"  Distortions  of  perverted  good. 
Held  sacred,  though  so  misconceived  ; 

The  error  that  as  truth  has  stood, 
And  cruel  creeds,  so  long  believed — 


"All  these  shall  dissipate  like  mist 
That  broods  o'er  valleys  through  the  night, 

When  Earth's  fair  forehead  has  been  kissed 
By  her  resplendent  bridegroom's  light 


W-n 


if  I 

I: 


"  The  seer  and  sage,  from  lofty  peaks 

Of  higher  altitudes  of  thought, 
Have  long  perceived  effulgent  streaks 

That  distant  mountain-tops  have  caught. 

"They've  watched  the  signs  that  herald  morn 
With  eyes  that  scanned  their  varying  tints, 

And  prophesied,  despite  of  scorn, 
This  dawn  which  the  horizon  glints. 


r 


WILLIAM  T.  JAMES. 


^95 


"  Like  watchmen  on  a  city  tow'r, 
They  still  proclaim  the  day's  approach 

To  torpid  minds,  that  note  the  hour, 
Then  their  disturbers'  voice  reproach  : 

'*  *  'Tis  false  !    I  see  no  sunlight  peep 
Into  my  shuttered  chamber  yet. 

Cease  thy  report  and  let  me  sleep, 
That  I  such  tidings  may  forget !' 

"  But  ever  and  anon  a  cry 

Gives  warning  of  the  coming  change. 
While  sluggards  ask  the  reason  why, 

And  deem  this  exhortation  strange  : 

"  '  Awake  !  ye  dreamers,  and  arise  ; 

Your  minds  with  knowledge  now  array, 
For  bright  and  brighter  g\o\j  the  skies 

With  sunshine  of  the  dawning  day.'  " 

THE  UNUTTERABLE  DESIRE. 

The  pensive  youth  resumes  his  irksome  task 
Behind  the  plow,  and  goads  the  drowsy  team ; 

But  every  common  object  wears  a  mask, 
And  e'en  the  oxen  teach  him  how  to  dream. 


morn 
I  tints, 


He  needs  must  pause.     (How  quick  the  burly  beasts 
Perceive  the  liberal  license  of  his  mood, 

And  stand  at  ease  while  wayward  Fancy  feasts 
With  paladins,  returned  all  blood-imbrued). 

And  while  the  stately  cavalcade  is  formed. 
And  helmed  knights  their  battle-steeds  bestride, 

And  fields  are  won,  and  feudal  castles  stormed, 
The  setting  sun  proclaims  it  eventide. 


2tj6 


A   CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Again  the  task  (li.s]K*ls  the  stirring  scene, 
Ag.'iin  the  furrow  lengthens  o'er  the  field  ; 

IJut  who  could  pass  a  copse  so  dense  arid  green 
Without  a  glimpse  of  romance,  there  concealed? 

Here  Robin  Hood  and  stalwart  l-'riar  Tuck 
Dispensed  the  spoils  or  ate  their  venison  fare  ; 

Here  outlawed  archers  tested  skill  jind  luck, 
Or  wound  their  horns,  or  planned  a  bishop's  snare. 


J 


ill 


I  -I 


s 
>  y 

I   t 


And  here  Maid  Marion  heard  a  lover's  vow, 
And  here (Hut  oh  !  pros:iic,  crviel  Fate  ! 

There  stand  the  idle  oxen  and  the  plow, 
Antl  there  an  irate  father  at  the  gate). 

And  oh  !  the  tusk,  and  oh  !  the  stern  demand  ; 

And  oh  !  the  guilty  feeling  in  his  breast. 
Is  there  no  champion  who  for  him  will  stand. 

To  .silence  wrath  with  Chivalry's  behest  ? 

"  A  lazy  lout !  "  he  hears  his  father  say. 
He  slew  a  dragon,  fought  a  host  and  won, 

Preserved  a  maiden  .scathless  through  a  fray, 
And  yet  is  asked  :  "Why  is  the  tusk  not  done  ?  " 

Without  excuse,  he  meekly  bears  the  cuff, 
Then  slinks,  crestfallen,  to  his  truckle-bed — 

A  vanquished  hero,  who  was  bold  enough 
Where  plows  were  lances  and  where  fields  were  red. 


U'j 


He  cannot  tell  why  he  should  be  remiss, 
Nor  why  some  things  a  vision  will  inspire  ; 

He  knows  but  one  vague  feeling,  and  'tis  this 
The  poet's  wild,  unutterable  desire. 


?:]| 


WILLIAM  T.  JAMES. 


297 


d? 


snare. 


Let  others  plow,  and  others  plant  the  corn  ; 

Let  others  moil  in  servitude's  degree ; 
But  he  must  dream,  though  waking  brings  him  scorn, 

When  each  enchantment  euds  in  misery. 

He  sees  with  envy  youth  engage  itself 
In  teiUons  toil  or  boisterous  merriment ; 

Yet  while  one  book,  unread,  is  on  the  shelf. 
He  keeps  his  vigils  as  a  saint  keeps  Lent 

Foregoing  pleasure,  little  else  he  craves 

Than  toleration  of  his  solitude. 
And  choice  in  spending  all  the  cash  he  saves. 

With  some  respect  for  each  eccentric  mood. 


1.1 


And  granted  these,  he  reigns  a  king  supreme, 
His  vassals  numerous  as  he  can  create. 

Would  he  a  palace  ?  He  has  but  to  dream. 
And  lo !  he  enters  by  the  golden  gate. 

Ask  him  not  why,  nor  what  it  is  that  burns 
Within  his  breast  like  a  consuming  fire ; 

He  only  feels  that  he  for  something  yearns 
With  that  intetiae,  unutterable  desire. 


ne?" 


irere 


red. 


HECTOR  MACPHERSON. 


■f   'I 


That  portion  of  the  British  Empire  known  as  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland,  is  particularly  rich  in  poetry, 
song  and  legendary  lore.  While  we  usually  think  of 
the  men  cradled  and  reared  among  the  heather  hills 
as  a  restless  and  warlike  race,  still  history  credits 
them  with  being  a  heroic  race ;  an  earnest,  patriotic, 
determined,  unconquerable  race,  but  withal  a  gentle, 
warm-hearted,  honorable,  God-serving  race,  from 
which  have  sprung  preachers,  philosophers,  novelists 
and  poets  whose  names  are  familiar  throughout  the 
world. 

Not  very  long  since,  a  sturdy  and  intelligent  rep- 
resentative Highlander — Hector  Macpherson,  bade 
farewell  to  his  native  hills,  and  after  a  pleasant  voy- 
age across  the  Atlantic  took  up  his  residence  in  the 
great  cosmopolitan  city  of  New  York.  He  brought 
with  him  letters  of  introduction  to  several  influential 
people  here,  but  he  soon  found  that  his  principal 
passport  to  the  friendship  and  the  homes  of  these 
parties  consisted  of  a  little  volume  of  musings 
entitled  "  Heather  Blossoms,"  which  he  carried  with 
him.  This  little  work  he  had  published  on  the  other 
side  some  time  previous  to  his  becoming  impressed 
with  the  idea  that  he  might  possibly  better  his  con- 
dition and  extend  his  fame  were  he  to  emigrate  to 


iwi 


HECTOR   MACPHERSON. 


^99 


as  the 
5oetry, 
link  of 
2r  hills 
credits 
itriotic, 
gentle, 
:,    from 
ovelists 
out  the 

nt  rep- 
n,  bade 
LTit  voy- 
1  in  the 
Drought 
uential 
rincipal 
3f  these 
musings 
led  with 
le  other 
ipressed 
his  con- 
grate  to 


America.  In  the  course  of  time  he  obtained  con- 
genial employment  in  the  office  of  a  city  newspaper, 
and  here  we  propose  leaving  him  while  we  take  a 
look  into  the  little  volume  referred  to. 

There  is  a  wealth  of  poetic  feeling  and  thought  in 
"Heather  Blossoms"  which  promises  much  for  the 
future  success  of  Mr.  Macpherson  as  a  poet.  He 
certainly  gives  evidence  at  present  of  being  no  nov- 
ice in  the  art  of  writing  poetry,  as  the  majority  of 
his  compositions  have  all  the  beauty  and  smoothness 
and  finish  of  a  more  experienced  and  more  venerable 
bard.  He  writes  naturally,  his  Ian .ju age  is  delicate 
and  always  well  cho.sen,  his  style  refined,  his  rhyme 
perfect,  and  his  ideas  seem  to  have  been  carefully 
studied  out  before  being  presented  to  his  friends  or 
permitted  to  appear  in  print. 

There  are  sixty-two  pieces  in  the  book,  all  more 
or  less  characterized  by  a  true  poetic  spirit.  Here  is 
the  opening  poem,  as  dainty  a  piece  of  Scottish 
verse,  by  the  way,  as  we  could  wish  to  read.     It  is  a 

cry  from  the  heart,  a  reaching  out  after  home,  a 
lament  from  a  foreign  land,  and  it  is  sweetly  per- 
fumed with  the  fragrance  of  the  heather: 

SCOTLAND'S   FLOWER. 

There  are  flowers  in  lands  afar,  frien', 
May  cheer  fond  hearts  out  there, 

And  fling  their  gentle  fragrance 
Upon  the  caller  air ; 


r 


Soo 


A  CLUSTER  OP  FOFTS, 


But,  ah !  my  soul  aft  wearies 

For  hame  across  the  sea, 
Where  bonnie  heather  sweetly  blooms — 

The  dearest  flower  to  me. 

Brin's  bairtis  may  weave  a  wreath 

O'  shamrock  fair  and  green. 
An'  garlands  o'  the  roses 

May  charm  gay  English  een ; 
Gi'e  unto  me  the  heath  frae 

The  mountain's  ragged  broo^ 
It  whispers  tales  o'  those  I  kent. 

The  gallant,  kind,  an'  true. 

Whar  thou,  sweet  flower,  bloomed  fairest. 

Our  fathers  worshipped  God ; 
Out  o'er  thy  regal  purple» 

A  f oeman  never  trod  ; 
The  sons  o'  Caledonia 

Their  hearts'  blood  aft  did  gi'e. 
That  thou  might'st  ever  bloom  amang 

The  noble  an'  the  free. 

There  are  many  similiar  poems  to  this,  in  "  Heather 
Blossoms."  A  sweet  musical  cadence  runs  through 
all  of  them,  and  they  possess  more  than  a  passing 
interest  for  tiie  Iov<»;rs  of  the  Scottish  muse. 

**Lady  Margaret,"  "Where  He  Sleepeth,"  "A 
Woeful  Tale,"  "Gathering  Clouds,"  "A  Curler's 
Lilt,"  "Gloom  and  Glory,"  "Amid  the  Shadows," 
"After  Many  Days"  and  "My  Bairn  at  Sea"  are 
all  exceptionally  good  poems  and  will  always  win 
friends  for  themselves  wherever  they  become  known. 
The  last  named  piece  has  been  widely  copied  by  the 


I  I    .1 


HECTOR  MACPHERSON. 


3»i 


rest, 


British  press  and  not  very  long  ago  the  writer  met 
with  it  in  the  columns  of  an  American  Journal. 

MY  BAIRN  AT  SEA. 

^Wmen.  the  gtoamiii'  creeps  doon 

Prae  die  tap  o'  the  hill. 
An'  the  beams  o'  the  moon 

Licht  oor  valley  sae  still, 
Aften  lanesome  I  rove, 

While  the  tears  dim  my  e'e, 
For  the  bairn  o'  my  love 

On  the  turbulent  sea. 

Tho'  lang  years  hae  ta'en  flicht 

Since  he  gaed  frae  his  hame ; 
Ib  my  dream  ilka  nicht 

Do  I  murmur  his  name ; 
His  kin'  letters  I  seek. 

They  bring  pleasure  to  me, 
Pbr  o*  love  do  they  speak 

Prae  my  bairn  on  the 


Heather 
J  through 
a  passing 

eth,"  "A 
^  Curler's 
shadows," 
Sea"  are 
ways  win 
le  known, 
ed  by  the 


When  the  storm-fiend  doth  sweep 

Hiro*  the  woods  on  the  brae, 
Ne'er  in  peace  can  I  sleep. 

When  my  heart  is  sae  wae, 
But  I  pray  that  His  han' 

O'er  the  ocean  may  be, 
An'  bring  safely  to  Ian' 

My  brave  bairn  on  the  sea. 

Oh !  then  hasten  the  morn 
When  ril  greet  him  again, 

An'  wi'  fear  nae  mair  torn 
When  the  win'  mak's  its  mane, 


Ui  i  '. i.t 


n 


302 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Frae  the  dawnin'  till  nicht 
Shall  my  heart  blythesonie  be, 

A'  the  dark  shall  be  licht, 
When  my  bairn's  frae  the  sea. 

Among  the  other  English  compositions  in  the  vol- 
ume is  a  sonnet  on  Shelley  which  is  so  talented  in 
every  way  that  it  at  once  proves  Macpherson  to  be  a 
poet  of  no  small  merit.  It  is  a  perfect  gem  of  its 
kind,  without  a  line  or  a  thought  which  we  could 
wish  to  alter : 


I  'M  I 


p.  B.  S.— 1792-1892. 

'Tis  but  an  hundred  fleeting  years  ago, 

When  slumb'ring  nature  stirred  her  from  her  sleep. 
And  bade  the  soul  of  music  sweetly  flow 

Across  time's  dark  and  dreary  tuneless  deep. 
High  Heaven  bent  an  ear  unto  the  cry. 

Vowed  earth  no  more  should  pine  beneath  such  wrong. 
Forthwith  a  minstrel  true  it  sent  from  high, 

A  gentle  soul  whose  only  speech  was  song. 
He  seized  his  harp,  and  o'er  a  list'ning  world. 

From  shades  of  lone  seclusion's  sacred  sphere, 
Such  strains  ecstatic  he  to  all  had  hurled. 

That '  ations,  all  entranced,  had  paused  to  hear. 
We  blejs  thee  for  the  song  thou'st  left  behind, 
•Tis  but  one  joy  the  more  to  human  kind. 

In  the  Spring  of  1896  Mr.  Macpherson  published  a 
second  volume  of  poetry  under  the  title  of  *'  Here's 
to  the  Heather."  In  reviewing  this  work,  the  Edin- 
burgh Scotsmaft  said: 

•'Mr.  Hector  Macpherson's  book,  "Here's  to  the 


HECTOR   MACPHERSON. 


303 


Heather,"  will  be  read  with  interest  as  the  work  of 
a  Scotsman  in  America  whose  thoughts  run  easily 
into  rhyme  when  they  revert  to  his  native  country. 
The  distinguishing  quality  of  the  pieces  in  dialect  is 
a  tenderness  for  Scotland  that  is  touched  gracefully 
by  an  exile's  melancholy.  Besides  these  vScottish 
pieces  the  book  has  many  in  the  standard  English — 
lyrics  which  reflect  the  spirit  of  the  fashionable  poetry 
of  the  past  generation — that  of  Byron  and  Moore — 
rather  than  of  the  present  day.  It  has  been  said  of 
Burns,  to  the  offence  of  many  indiscriminating  ad- 
mirers, though  not  without  some  reason,  that  he  was 
never  so  successful  in  English  as  in  Scottish.  The 
remark  is  not  applicable  to  Mr.  Macpherson,  or  in- 
deed to  any  but  very  few  who  have  written  since  the 
time  of  Bums.  The  dialect  seems  often  affecfed  for 
the  purposes  of  poetical  expression.  Mr.  Mac- 
phenson's  Scottish  is  far  from  being  the  false  or 
manufactured  article  which  one  meets  with  in  draw- 
ng-room  soncs  and  in  the  work  of  some  poets.  But 
he  wri*^cs  '  .  <t.er,  on  the  whole,  and  with  less  remi- 
niscen^'A)  of  mere  bookish  words  and  phrases,  when 
he  drovs  the  dialect.  But  wh  „  her  in  the  homely  or 
in  the  ikerary  speech,  he  wriu  >:  with  so  sincere  a 
regard  for  all  that  is  most  characteristic  of  Scotland 
that  r?aders  here  cannot  but  be  touched  as  well  as 
pleased  by  the  tender  patriotism  of  his  verses." 

Hector  Macpherson  was  born  on  the  tenth  of  April, 
1864,  at  Tain,  i;.  Ros^^shr  e,  T- cotland.  His  boy-hood 
days  were  haj  py  (»rjCf!,  bit  in  educational  matters  he 


i«# 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POSTS. 


was  xxmmderaMy  hampered  by  &  defect  in  his  dght. 
This  defect,  however,  has  been  in  a  ^eat  me&^nre 
happily  remedied.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  Tcmr>^*id 
to  Inverness,  the  great  capital  of  the  HighlfiUds,  and 
here  it  was  that  he  first  began  to  weave  his  thoughts 
into  verse.  He  gradually  became  perfec.'  in  this 
work  and  for  the  last  eight  or  ten  years  he  has  been 
contributing  articles  and  poems  to  some  of  th?  !«>  ^rl- 
ing  newspapers  and  magazines  of  the  old  worlJ,  ^i. 
few  further  details  in  connection  with  his  life  uiay 
be  gleaned  from  the  following  epistle  addressed  to 
the  writer: 

GENEALOGICAL 

TO  JOHN    D.    ROSS,   ON  niS  ASKING   VOR  9DME 
BIOGRAFHICAI.  DATA. 


My  life's  tale  I  unfold  to  view 

Its  dreams  and  hopes  in  order  due, 

Scant  gold  :  much  cboss  ; 
But  mercy  here  yon  shall  extend, 
For  Scotia's  minstrels  found  A  friend 

In  John  D,  Ross. 


w 


1.  i 


My  worthy  frien',  I  scarce  can  tell 
Wherein  my  forbears*  footsteps  fell 
But  haith,  I  doot  that  poortith  snell 

Did  nip  them  sair 
For  ne'er  in  ae  place  wad  they  dweU 

Noo  here,  noo  there. 


My  grandsire^s  is  the  oldest  name 
tTnto  my  listenin*  ears  that  came : 
He  ance  midst  scenes  well  kent  to  fame 


HECTOR  MACPHERSON. 


30s 


nght. 
ea^tire 

s,  and 
mghts 
n  this 
I  been 

?  1e  nH- 


sed  tu 


Stood  staunch  an*  true ; 
He  fought  for  glwy  an'  his  hame 
At  Waterloo. 

Syne  he  m  my  anld  native  toon 

When  nigh  full  ninety  years  gaed  roun', 

Laid  a'  his  heavy  hurdens  doun, 

For  a'  naun  dee ; 
An'  noo  in  peace  he  slumbers  soun', 

Fast  by  the  sea. 

Wha  can  Dame  Nature's  power  restrain 
When  youthfu'  ardour  fires  ilk  vein  ! 
My  sire  mang  martial  scenes  was  fain 

To  stand  or  fa* ; 
While  life's  gay  morn  was  a'  his  ain 

He  gaed  awa'. 


Ere  lang  'fore  Scotia's  foes  he  stood 
Where  Death  in  strange  and  fearsome  mood 
Wrought  'mang  the  noble  an'  the  good 

Maist  direfu'  ill. 
An'  there  he  marked  a  brother's  blood 

Stain  Alma's  hill. 

Syne  oot  upon  far  India's  shore 
The  bloody  brand  of  war  he  bore 
Avenging  mony  a  pang  fu'  soie 

Hiat  bled  at  hame, 
Then  wi'  his  wounds  an  little  more 

To  Scotland  came. 


Faith  shone  upon  his  early  days 
He  noo  to  cheer  his  aulder  ways 
Does  good,  nor  censure  heeds,  nor  praise, 


mp 


n 


So6 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


I  ?  M 


\\"i\ 


<T>.      I 


i .  -l 


Aids  a'  he  can  ; 
Thus  doon  life's  gloamin'  noo  he  strays 
An  honest  man. 

My  aged  mither  blessings  cheer 
Her  life's  lang  journey  year  by  year, 
May  sorrow  ne'er  again  draw  near 

To  wake  a  plaint, 
She's  to  the  bosom  far  mair  dear 

Than  queen  or  saint. 

War's  glamour  for  oor  race  is  spent 
Where  furious  passions  madly  blent. 
Nor  e'er  midst  bloody  scenes  intent 

Was  I  to  stray, 
Fain  wad  I  rove  in  sweet  content 

In  peacefu'  way. 

Mr.  Macpherson  is  a  yoiin^  man  with  hopeful 
optimistic  views  of  life,  and  it  is  no  doubt  due  to 
this  fact  that  many  of  the  poems  contained  in  his 
books  are  on  the  subject  of  love.  These  poems,  as 
may  readily  be  surmised,  are  characterized  by  a 
great  purity  of  thoui^^ht,  added  to  which  is  an  in- 
tensely affectionate  spirit.  Besides  this  they  contain 
numerous  lines  of  really  exquisite  poetry.  Among 
the  best  of  them  are  those  addressed  '*  To  a  Lady," 
•'To  Love's  Truant,"  "Love's  Charms,"  •*  Love's 
Recompense,"  "Love's  Petition,"  "Jessie  Mine," 
and  "A  Lassie's  Lament."  There  are  also  some 
very  tender  and  touching  little  poems  that  might 
appropriately  be  termed  "  Serious  Love  Poems,"  and 
of  these  we  attach  a  specimen : 


,'■(.:. 


HECTOR   MACPHERSON. 


307 


WILT  THOU   FORGET? 

When  I  am  laid  among  the  dead, 
My  darling,  wilt  thou  weep  for  me  ? 

Or  when  my  spirit  thence  havS  fled, 
Shalt  thou  forget  who  loved  but  thee  ? 

Yet  if  from  earth  first  thou  should'st  stray, 

I'd  fret  my  drooping  soul  away. 

Let  no  vain  show  of  inane  art 
Oppress  the  tomb  where  I  shall  rest. 

My  monument — a  loving  heart 
Is  all  I  seek,  'tis  still  the  best ; 

And  may  that  heart  be  thine  alone, 

Where  memory  sets  her  sacred  throne. 


hopeful 

due  to 

i  in  his 

)ems,  as 

d   by  a 

an  in- 

contain 

Among 

Lady," 

Love's 

Mine," 

;o  some 

might 

IS,"  and 


Let  nature  deck  the  lowly  mound 
With  wild  luxuriance,  rich  and  rare ; 

May  only  woodland  choirs  resound 
To  wake  the  hallowed  stillness  there. 

If  there  thy  way  thou  e'er  would 'st  trace, 

Let  not  death's  shadow  dim  thy  face. 

Forbear  the  wild  impassioned  tear, 
Thy  riven  heart  may  bid  thee  shed, 

For  know  my  spirit  hovers  near, 
Tho'  I  may  slumber  with  the  dead. 

E'en  Heaven  cannot  Heaven  be. 

Until  there  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me. 

In  Mr.  Macpherson's  brief  preface  to  his  first 
volume  he  says : 

'•  To  a  volume  of  verse  in  this  part  of  the  world  a 
preface  has  become  a  regular  institution,  the  writers 
giving  a  detailed   account   of  the 


disadvantageous 


3o6 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


circumstances  under  which  their  lines  were  composed, 
and  their  disinterestedness  in  the  publication — merely 
getting  their  volume  out  to  please  a  few  friends. 
Having  nothing  to  offer  in  extenuation  of  my  crime 
in  venturing  to  intrude  myself  among  such  modest 
singers,  I  place  myself  at  the  mercy  of  the  critics  to 
atone  for  my  sins  as  they  see  best. " 

To  this  we  would  add  that  the  critics  have  had 
their  say  in  the  matter  and  their  verdicts,  as  far  as 
the  writer  has  seen,  must  have  been  exceedingly 
pltpg  rinp-  to  the  feelings  of  this  yoimg  and  talented 
author. 


mposed, 
—merely 
friends, 
ly  crime 
L  modest 
critics  to 

I 

Lave  had 
IS  far  as 
eedingly 
talented 


mm 

ni 

r 

^■1 

i'  :    ( 

i             1 

*       .      ' ' 

'  ''  \ 

1 

! 

prr 


ii    il 


.  ij 


i      t 


I 


JOHN    MACFARLANlv. 


JOHN   MACFARLANE. 

("JOHN  ARBORY.") 


It  is  a  singular  fact  that  many  of  the  finest  Scot- 
tish poets  of  our  time  are  to  be  found  in  the  United 
States  and  Canada  *  *  Indeed  it  may  well  be  doubted, ' ' 
says  a  writer  in  the  North  British  Advertiser,  **if 
the  living  poets  who  still  remain  in  Scotland  equal 
those  now  in  exile,"  It  is  unnecessary,  we  presume, 
to  mention  the  names  of  the  various  bards  now 
domiciled  here  and  in  Canada  in  support  of  this 
assertion.  We  have  all  listened  at  one  time  or  other 
with  rare  pleasure,  as  they  warbled  forth  their  sweet 
and  affectionate  notes  in  our  midst,  and  we  have 
applauded  and  praised  their  efforts  so  heartily  that 
they  have  at  length  been  encouraged  to  lay  their 
productions  in  book  form  before  the  public,  and,  in 
the  majority  of  cases,  we  think  they  have  been  amply 
remunerated  for  the  venture  which  they  made. 
Aside  from  this,  however,  they  have  assisted  in  the 
building  np  of  American  and  Canadian  poetical 
literature,  and  th&r  books  will  become  valuable,  and 
will  no  doubt  be  treasured  long  after  the  present 
generation  has  passed  away. 

Among  the  poets  who  have  established  a  reputa- 
tion for  themselves  in  the  new  world,  there  are  few 
more  deserving  of  notice  than  Mr.  Macfarlane,  the 


■-■■■v^j*?. 


S^o 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


i      Hi 


"John  Arbory"  whose  musings  are  so  frequently 
met  with  in  the  newspapers  and  weekly  publications 
of  to-day.  Within  the  past  few  years  this  gentleman 
has  produced  a  very  large  number  of  highly  meritor- 
ious poems  and  lyrical  pieces,  and  we  feel  assured 
that  he  will  ere  long  attain  a  prominent  position 
among  the  more  notable  modern  Scottish  poets.  He 
certainly  possesses  a  fine  literary  taste,  and  a  healthy 
poetic  imagination.  His  poems  are  intelligent, 
powerful  and  fascinating.  They  embrace  a  wide 
variety  of  subjects,  and  in  most  instances,  are  dis- 
tinguished by  original  and  lofty  ideas.  His  expres- 
sion is  graceful  and  touching,  his  diction  pure,  his 
style  earnest  and  dignified.  Mr.  Macfarlane  was 
born  in  1857  and  spent  his  boyhood  years  in  Abing- 
ton,  a  romantic  little  village  situated  almost  on  the 
borders  of  Lanarkshire  and  Dumfriesshire,  and  near 
to  the  source  of  the  river  Clyde.  (In  the  immediate 
vicinity  are  Arbory  Hill,  Arbory  Glen,  etc.,  hence 
the  nom-de-plume  ' '  John  Arbory. ")  In  his  poem  en- 
titled "The  Bonnie  Banks  o'  Clyde,"  he  gives  us  an 
interesting  and  graphic  account  of  the  impressions 
which  the  natural  surroundings  of  his  birthplace 
conveyed  to  his  young  mind.  These  were  happy 
and  pleasing  impressions,  and  time  has  seemingly 
stamped  them  all  the  more  indelibly  on  his  memory. 
We  quote  the  little  poem  referred  to  here  as  it  forms 
as  exquisite  a  piece  of  Scottish  descriptive  postry  as 
we  could  wish  to  read: 


JOHN  MACFARLANE. 


3" 


jquently 
lications 
ntleman 
meritor- 
assured 
position 
its.     He 
,  healthy 
elligent, 
s  a  wide 
are  dis- 
;  expres- 
pure,  his 
ane   was 
1  Abing- 
t  on  the 
and  near 
imediate 
;.,  hence 
poem  en- 
'es  us  an 
pressions 
rthplace 
e  happy 
jemingly 
memory, 
it  forms 
Dostry  as 


THE  BONNIE   BANKS  O'    CLYDE. 

0  !  sweet  are  the  smiles  o'  the  siinnier  sun, 
Whaur  the  sil'vry  Severn  shines, 

An'  many  the  gardens  glittering  rich, 

That  the  winding  Wye  entwines  ; 
But  fancy  flies — an'  I  stand  ance  mair 

In  the  purple  gloaniiiig-tide, 
An'  the  gowden  licht  o'  auld  lang  syne, 

On  the  lx)nnie  banks  o'  Clyde. 

1  hear  the  croon  o'  the  wee  hill-burn. 
That  sings  thro'  the  lang  green  glen; 

Whaur  the  muircocks  craw  thro'  the  misty  daw' 

And  the  red  fox  bigs  his  den, 
Whaur  the  harebell  chimes  to  the  westlan'  breeze. 

An'  doun  frae  the  broon  hillside 
The  scent  o'  the  heather  fills  the  air, 

On  the  bonnie  banks  o'  Clyde. 

The  lavrock  lilts  in  the  cloudless  blue 

An'  the  wee  wild  gowans  bloom, 
An'  the  linty  chirms  a  lown  luve-plaint, 

In  the  bield  o'  the  yellow  broom. 
The  blackbird  pipes,  an  the  cushat  wails. 

An'  faur  through  the  plantin'  wide 
The  springs  o'  life  are  fresh  an'  young, 

On  the  bonnie  banks  o'  Clyde, 

In  the  howe  o'  the  nicht  wher  t^^e  wan  munelicht, 

Ivies  sleepin'  on  cot  an'  ha  , 
When  the  finger  o'  silence  has  touched  the  hills, 

An'  the  stars  glint  doun  owre  a'; 
The  heart  grows  grit  wi'  the  thocht  o'  the  rest, 

Whaur  God's  ain  deid  abide, 
In  the  auld  kirk-yaird  on  the  breist  o'  the  brae. 

On  the  bonnie  banks  o'  Clyde. 


3^^ 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Very  beautiful  and  tender  also,  is  the  little  piece 
entitled  "  A  Flower, "  composed  by  Mr.  Macfarlane 
only  a  few  months  ago.  There  is  a  char  ^  sim- 
plicity about  it,  and  it  recalls  to  our  minds  many 
scenes  and  incidents  of  days  now  lonjj  gone  by,  but 
over  which  we  Hngfer  lovingly.  It  is  written  in  the 
pure  lowland  Scotch,  and  it  will  be  welcome  to  many 
for  the  sweet  thoughts  embodied  within  its  lines. 

A  FLOWER. 

It  cam*  wi'  a  glint  o'  the  scenes  langsyne, 

Prae  the  hills  that  I  ca'  my  ain  ; 
An'  the  glens  that  aye  wi*  my  dreams  n*        twine. 

In  the  howes  o'  my  waukrife  brain. 
Nae  doubt  'twas  a  feckless  thing  to  sen', 

But  it  thrilled  my  heart,  forsooth  ! 
Wi'  a  nameless  joy  that  few  can  ken, 

That  flow'r  frae  the  hame  o'  my  youth. 

I  hae  look't  on  grander  gems  o'  licht. 

An'  fresher  frae  Nature's  hand, 
But  nane  that  were  bnrden't  wi'  thocht  mair  bricht 

In  the  length  or  breadth  o'  the  land  ; 
For  it  brocht  wi'  its  blinks  o'  dew-deck'd  lea, 

An'  its  pearlins  o'  muirlan'  truth, 
A  kiss  frae  the  mou'  that  I  fain  wad  pree, — 

Sweet  flow'r  frae  tiie  hame  o'  my  youth. 

The  smilling  o*  Portmie  may  e*en  gang  by, 

An'  the  histre  o*  coroaets  wane, 
But  love,  like  a  star  in  the  gloamin^  sky, 

Beams  aft  in  the  gloom  alane ; 


JOHN   MACFARLANE. 


3'3 


:le  piece 
icfarlane 
^  sim- 
Is  many 
5  by,  but 
n  in  the 
to  many 
lines. 


twine, 


lair  bricht 
lea, 


th. 


An'  tho'  'neath  the  blasts  o'  misfortune  chill, 

The  blossoms  o'  Hope  may  fa', 
A  Han'  frae  aboon  has  plantit  still 

A  fiow'r  in  the  warld  for  a'. 

Another  excellent  little  production,  but  altogether 
different  from  the  foregoing,  shows  how  eminently 
adapted  Mr.  Macfarlane  is  for  composing  brief  poems 
in  connection  with  any  subject  on  which  his  fancy 
may  alight.  "In  Yarrow"  is  a  perfectly  finished 
poem  in  a  very  few  lines.  It  is  highly  melodious  in 
composition,  yet  plaintive  and  almost  sad  in  senti- 
ment, and  no  one  can  r  ad  it  without  feeling  satisfied 
that  the  author  possesses  true  and  finely  cultivated 
poetical  talents. 

IN   YARROW. 

I  lay  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow, 

In  the  deepening,  gloaming  tide, 
And  my  heart  was  stirred  to  a  sad  sweet  tune. 

Like  the  chaunting  of  some  old  bride. 

Like  a  song  from  the  land  of  Faery, 

In  the  mystic  days  of  yore. 
Of  a  ladylove  to  her  own  true  knight, 

When  his  elfin  spear  he  bore. 

For  so  weird  was  the  wold  and  lonely, 

And  the  emerald  sward  so  green, 
That  a  dreamer  of  eld  might  fancy  there 

The  morrice  was  danced  yestreen. 

And  the  hills  and  the  streams  around  me, 

In  the  light  of  song  were  fair. 
And  a  sad  gray  beauty  that  died  away, 

On  ••  The  Bush  Aboon  Traquair." 


t 


*■■  > 


■p.  I 


i! 


3^4 


A   CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


So  I  thought  of  Wordsworth's  ballads, 

'Neath  the  full  red  harvest  moon, 
Of  the  Ettrick  Bard  and  Sir  Walter  Scott, 

And  Thomas  of  Erceldouue. 

Of  the  band  of  nameless  singers, 
lyike  the  aun  in  the  west  sunk  down, 

The  magic  spell  of  whose  glamourie, 
Still  haloes  each  tower  and  town. 

And  my  heart  was  moved  in  Yarrow, 

As  the  night  wind  moves  the  sea, 
By  the  touch  of  a  far-off  strange  unrest, 

From  the  ages  of  gramerye. 

While  our  author  spent  a  number  of  years  at  the 
village  school,  he  received  the  most  important  part 
of  his  education  at  what  Caryle  styles  *'the  best 
imiversity  of  these  days,  viz:  a  collection  of  Books." 
His  father  was  a  man  of  considerable  learning  and 
good  intellectual  abilities,  but  it  was  from  his  mother 
that  he  inherited  his  poetical  tastes.  In  his  sixteenth 
year  he  left  his  native  village  and  proceeded  to 
Glasgow.  Here  he  obtained  employment  for  some 
time  in  a  nierchantile  house.  He  was  next  employed 
in  England,  and  then  returned  to  Scotland.  A  few 
years  ago  he  crossed  over  to  Canada,  and  he  now 
holds  a  responsible  position  in  a  large  dry  goods  im- 
porting house  in  Montreal.  He  began  contributing 
poems  and  sketches  to  various  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines when  only  a  boy,  and  some  of  his  many 
effusions  display  considerable  merit  and  promise. 
The   following   production,  for  instance,  is  a  very 


JOHN  MACFARLANE. 


3^5 


•s  at  the 
ant  part 
the  best    • 
Books.** 
ling  and 
|s  mother 
iixteenth 
seded  to 
or  some 
jmployed 
A  few 
he  now 
lods  im- 
;ributing 
id  maga- 
lis  many 
Ipromise. 
a  very 


creditable  one  for  an  author  who  had  just  attained 
his  twentieth  year.  It  was  written  for  the  inaugura- 
tion of  the  Glasgow  Burns'  statue,  which  was  un- 
vailed  by  Lord  Houghton  on  the  twenty-fifth  of 
January  1877. 

A   POET   KING. 

What  meaneth  this  wild  commotion  ? 

Why  surgeth  the  crowd  along  ? 
'Tis  the  natal  day  of  a  poet  king, 

The  chief  of  Scottish  song  ; 
And  lo  !  tliey  come  in  thousands 

From  mountain  and  strath  and  glen, 
As  free  in  soul  as  the  air  they  breathe. 

To  honor  a  Saul  of  men. 

And  grandly,  hark  !  is  ringing 

On  the  silv'ry  stream  of  day, 
**  The  rank  is  but  of  the  coin  the  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gold  for  aye." 
No  lyric  dream  is  this. 

To  thrill  with  its  magic  thrall, 
No  fancy  caught  from  the  wilds  of  thought, 

But  a  cry  from  the  hearts  of  all. 

The  soul  of  manhood  leaps 

In  the  toil-encircled  throng, 
They  shake  the  earth  with  their  bounding  tread. 

For  he  hath  made  them  strong ; 
For  wreathed  with  the  light  of  genius, 

The  labor-warrior  stands, 
And  the  bulwarks  e'en  of  a  throne  might  fall 

If  smote  by  his  horny  hands. 


J 


Si6 


i 


m 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


And  the  blindM  god  of  Mammon, 

Hath  paled  at  Uie  minstrel's  name, 
And  a  shiver  hath  passed  to  his  crusted  soul 

'Neath  the  blaze  of  the  heavenly  flame  ; 
The  tyrant  with  glc  "ui  in  his  heart. 

And  the  brand  of  Cain  on  *"*"  brow. 
Like  a  craven  quakes  in  his  \     ite-lipp'd  fear, 

At  the  gleaming  of  Freedom  now. 


The  shroud  of  the  past  hath  vanished, 

And  the  mighty-given-of-God, 
Looms  forth  entranced  with  the  meanest  flower, 

That  springs  from  the  verdant  sod ; 
Oh  !  wildly  impassioned  spirit ! 

In  the  throes  of  thy  great  unrest. 
Thou  gavest  the  golden  chalice  of  Thought, 

But  we  called  for  the  ribald  jest. 

The  stamp  of  the  mind  unfettered. 

The  smile  and  the  orbSd  fire, 
No  magic  touch  to  the  image  brings. 

We  garnish  a  broken  lyre  : 
But  scarr'd  with  the  fight  of  ages, 

Triumphantly  Scotia  turns, 
With  a  queenly  glance  of  pride  in  her  eyes. 

To  gaze  on  her  laureate  Bums. 

The  patriotism  and  love  for  their  mother  land 
evinced  by  Scotsmen  abroad  has  become  proverbial ; 
and  that  distance  does  not  lessen  their  ardent  admir- 
ation for  the  genius  of  their  great  national  bard,  the 
return  of  each  succeeding  25th  of  January  is  sufficient 
evidence. 


JOHN  MACFA  ^LANE. 


3'7 


In  this  latter  respect,  our  author  has  lost  none  of 
his  youthful  enthusiasm  for  Bums,  as  the  following 
tribute  written  on  Canadian  soil  will  show : 


[ear, 


flower, 


tht. 


res, 

ler  land 
)verbial ; 
t  admir- 
ard,  the 
ufficient 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

To-night,  amid  Canadian  snows, 

In  lordly  hall  and  cottage  home, 
Where  e'er  the  blood  of  Scotsmen  flows. 

Where  e'er  the  feet  of  Scotsmen  roam  ; 
One  name  upon  the  lips  grows  sweet, — 

More  rich  than  wine  from  purple  urns, — 
With  thrill  electric,  flashing  fleet, 

The  name  of  Robert  Bums. 

Young  hearts  thro'  all  the  golden  years 

Proclaim  the  magic  of  his  wand, 
And  aged  eyes  are  wet  with  tears 

With  music  from  his  loving  hand  ; 
He  is  not  dead — he  cannot  die — 

A  king  of  men  he  still  returns. 
And  rules  as  erst  with  spirit  high 

The  land  of  Robert  Burns. 

In  clouds  of  glory,  dash'd  with  rain, 

With  heavenly  light-gleams  bound  and  furled. 
From  his  high  Caucasus  of  Pain 

He  casts  a  song-wreath  round  the  world  ; 
And  weakest  souls  beneath  his  spell 

Have  gathered  strength  as  he  who  spurns 
The  might  of  tyrants  :  it  is  well ! 

God  bless  you  !    Robert  Bums. 

A  considerable  number  of  Mr.  Macfarlane's  poems 
refer  to  the  Covenanters  and  their  times.     **Simp- 


i: 


msmm 


Elv  'i 


Mm 


ll  I 


>!     tj 


""I       ';! 


t; 


IfS 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


son's  Traditions  of  the  Covenanters,"  he  writes  **  was 
the  real  '  Arabian  Hights '  of  my  boyhood.  I  was 
a  veritable  Covenanter,  and  it  required  no  great 
stretch  of  imagination  to  be  so,  as  I  lived  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  Southern  Moors  consecrated  by  the 
heroism  of  that  dark  period  of  Scottish  history. 
That  and  the  fact  that  the  blood  of  some  of  the 
sufferers  ran  in  my  own  veins  is  reason  enough,  I 
suppose,  why  my  youthful  fancy  was  captivated  by 
the  romantic  side  of  the  great  struggle.  I,  myself, 
would  be  very  far  from  being  in  intellectual  touch 
with  a  Covenanter  projected  into  the  present  age, 
but  all  the  same,  as  Carlyle  says,  and  Burns  sings, 
the  Covenanters  were  the  true  heroes  and  not  the 
Cavaliers."  "  It  is  to  be  regretted,"  he  adds,  "  that 
the  great  genius  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  not  in 
sympathy  with  the  genius  of  his  race  on  this  point." 
The  following  brief  poem  will  give  an  idea  of  his 
work  in  this  direction : 

THE  MARTYR'S  GRAVK. 

Hid  in  the  depths  o'  the  iiiuirlan'  mists, 

Un watched  on  tlie  slope  o*  the  mountain  green, 

The  Martyr's  grave  that  we  kent  langsyne, 

Pleads  wi'  the  heart  in  the  wilds  unseen  ; 

An'  the  glen  whaur  forfouchen  an'  hunted  sair, 

He  socht  for  a  den  by  the  roebuck's  lair. 

Alane,  on  the  hill-tap  stern  an'  gray, 
Alane,  in  the  fa'  o'  heaven's  ain  dew, 
He  thocht  o'  the  Lord  and  His  promise  guid, 


JOHN  MACFARLANE. 


319 


5S  "was 

I  was 

10  great 

the  very 

b}^  the 

history. 
3   of  the 
nough,  I 
vated  by 
:,  myself, 
aal  touch 
sent  age, 
•ns  sings, 
i  not  the 
ds,  "that 
as  not  in 
tis  point." 

ea  of  his 


Irecn, 


sair, 


For  the  faith  o'  the  covenant  life  was  true  ; 
An'  a  sweet  dream  cam'  ower  his  wearied  sicht, 
Like  a  gleam  straucht  doon  frae  the  starns  o'  licht. 

Chased  frae  his  hame,  an'  the  bairns  he  lo'ed, 
Far  frae  the  luve  o'  his  kith  an'  kin, 
He  still  was  leal  to  the  grand  auld  league, 
For  he  couldna  bide  in  the  tents  o'  sin  ; 
An  the  croun  was  his  that  the  sainted  wear, 
For  it  glintit  aft  on  his  broo  o'  care. 

Abune  was  the  treasure  he  lang  had  hained, 
Abune  wi'  the  host  o'  the  pure  an'  just, 
Sae  he  didna  flee  frae  the  hour  o'  doom, 
His  father's  God  was  his  only  trust , 
An'  his  saul  ta'en  flicht  to  the  realms  sae  blest, 
Tho'  his  shroud  was  a  shroud  o'  mornin'  mist. 


Among  our  author's  other  poems  on  the  subject  of 
the  Covenanters  and  their  times,  we  would  specially 
refer  to  "  Auchensaugh, "  "  Dowie  Howms  o'  Both- 
well,"  "The  Nameless  Martyr,"  and  "The  Last  o' 
the  Hilhnen. "  These  are  written  in  a  pathetic  and 
masterly  style,  recalling  with  r.  startling  reality  the 
times  and  deeds  on  which  they  treat.  Apart  from 
this  subject,  however,  Mr.  Macfarlane  has  written 
many  valuable  poems  of  a  deepiy  religious  cheracter. 
These  display  considerable  talent  in  their  general 
composition,  and,  taken  altogether,  are  productions 
to  which  he  can  point  with  satisfaction  and  pride. 
Take  the  following  one  as  a  specimen : 


320 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


A  DREAM   OF  DEATH. 


"  Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with  Death." 


—  Tennyson. 


i    > 


"i      'iVL 


Death  to  a  loved  one  came  so  very  near 
That  waking  thoughts  within  my  vision  crept, 
Till  all  before  the  Shadow  draped  with  Fear, 
In  agony  I  wept. 

And  cried  in  human  weakness  to  the  gods, 
For  some  strong  arm  of  more  than  mortal  mould, 
To  dare  like  His  who  brought  from  high  abodes 
The  sacred  fire  of  old. 

To  thrust  aside  the  flaming  sword  and  stand 
A  new  Prometheus  by  the  immortal  tree, 
When  lo  !  to  stay  the  impious  wish,  a  hand 
Thro'  darkness  fell  on  me. 

And  calmly  sweet  as  sunlight  from  on  high, 
From  out  the  East  a  voice  of  sadness  came 
Breathihg  into  my  heart  whose  wilder'd  cry 
The  lips  had  moved  to  frame: 

"  Behold  the  man  !"  and  dimly  bright  there  stood, 
(With  sorrow  crowned,  ah  !  diadem  supreme  !) 
One  pure  of  life  by  Calvary's  sacred  rood. 

Who  spake  above  the  ages'  fevered  dream  : 

"  l<et  not  your  souls  be  troubled," — and  around 
The  shining  feet  of  Him  the  shackles  lay 
Of  vanquish'd  Death — a  captive  made  and  bound. 
Whose  power  had  passed  away. 

With  whom  doth  ever  walk  unstained  of  crime, 
And  heavenly-wise  this  stricken  earth  of  ours. 
An  angel-band  within  the  Night  of.  Time 
Uplifting  weary  hours. 


JOHN  MACFARLANE. 


32f 


Bearing  throughout  the  regions  of  the  tomb, 
The  mystic  symbol  of  the  Holy  Dove, 
Wherefrom  is  shed — dispelling  deepest  gloom, 
The  nimbus  of  His  love. 


And  so  forever  fled  the  fear  of  death, 
Like  mists  that  roll  before  the  breaking  day  ; 
I  knew  the  Spoiler  with  the  Cypress  Wreath 
Could  only  take  the  clay. 


Mr.  Macfarlane  has  been  honored  by  having  a 
number  of  his  lyrics  set  to  appropriate  music  and 
pubHvShed  in  sheet  form,  and  in  each  instance  they 
have  commanded  a  very  extensive  sale.  In  review- 
ing his  little  volume,  "Heather  and  Harebell"  in 
the  Edinburgh  Scotsman,  the  writer  remarks  of  one 
of  these — "The  Lost  Langsyne" — that  "it  is 
destined  to  find  a  permanent  place  among  the 
already  numerotis  celebrated  songs  of  Scotland:" 


THE  LOST  IvANGSYNE. 

The  lost  langsyne  !  O,  the  lost  langsyne  ! 
Wi'  the  day-light  sae  sweet,  an'  the  gloamin  sae  fine, 
The  heart  yirms  aye,  an'  the  thocht  winna  tyne, 
For  the  years  far  awa'  i'  the  lost  langsynv . 

We  trysted  at  e'en — an'  acourtin'  gaed  we 
When  the  'oors  sped  sae  swift  'neath  the  auld  thorn  tree, 
Sae  blythe  an'  sae  blate — dae  ye  min  ;  dae  ye  min  : 
In  the  years  far  awa'  i'  the  lost  langsyne. 


1 


32» 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


•i 


;l  ! 


Or,  the  hairst  was  afit,  an'  the  liltin'  was  free, 
An'  the  sangs  that  were  sung  were  sae  pawky  and  plee, — 
For  the  luve-licht  was  glintin',  and  young  hearts  were  kin', 
In  the  years  far  awa'  i'  the  lost  langsyne. 

The  lost  langsyne  !    O,  the  lost  langsyne  ! 
The  hopes  that  were  yours,  an'  the  loves  that  were  mine, 
Hae  shed  a'  their  bloom  like  a  flow'r  i'  the  dwine, 
Far,  far  awa'  i'  the  lost  langsyne. 

As  a  closing  specimen  we   quote   his  well-known 
song: 

THE   LAND   O'   CAKES. 

I  carena  for  Italian  skies, 

Tlio  bricht  nae  doubt  they  be, 
I  lo'e  the  mountains  o'  the  North, 

Wi'  tempests  fierce  an'  free  ; 
I  lo'e  the  bonnie  bumies  a', 

The  grand  majestic  lakes, 
O'  Mither  Nature's  sternest  isle, 

The  guid  auld  land  o'  cakes. 

Tho'  fortune  smile  on  ither  climes, 

An'  sunlicht  purer  fa', 
They  canna  gild  a  tyrant's  croon. 

Or  dicht  its  stains  awa'  ; 
Where  slav'ry  binds  wi'  gowden  chains, 

There  freedom  never  wakes ; 
But  liberty  v/as  born  an'  bred, 

In  Scotia's  land  o'  cakes. 

Tho  heather  twines  the  breckan  roun', 

The  thistle  shields  his  bride. 
And  love  frae  mony  a  lassie's  e'e, 
s  glancin'  oot  wi'  pride  ; 


JOHN  MACFARLANE. 


3^3 


ind  Flee, — 
ts  were  kin', 


The  blackbird  liltin'  sweet  at  morn, 
His  love-mate  ne'er  forsakes  ; 

Leal  hearts  hae  cast  a  halo  roun' 
Tlie  bonnie  land  o'  cakes. 


were  mine, 
ine, 

veil -known 


And  still  to  ilka  wanderer  dear, 

Ayont  the  dark  blue  sea — 
The  scenes  o'  youth  aft  haunt  his  dreams, 

Tho'  clouded  frae  the  e'e  ; 
And  aye  the  siller  cord  leads  back. 

To  where  the  wild  wave  breaks. 
On  rocks  that  guard  the  queen  o'  isles. 

To  Scotia's  land  o'  cskes. 

In  conclusion,  we  may  state  that  Mr.  Macfarlane 
is  the  editor  of  a  work  recently  issued  from  the 
press  of  Mr.  Alex.  Gardner  of  Paisley,  entitled 
"The  Harp  of  the  Scottish  Covenant" — an  anthology 
of  poetry  intended  to  do  for  the  Covenanters  what 
has  long  ago  been  done  for  the  Cavaliers  and  the 
Jacobites — and  to  judge  from  the  newspaper  notices, 
the  book  is  likely  to  have  a  wide  circulation  among 
Scotsmen,  both  at  home  and  abroad. 


Lains, 


in  , 


REV.  WILLIAM  WYE  SMITH. 


mi 


■■■I 


I;    'i! 


In  1850  there  was  published  in  Toronto,  Canada, 
a  small  volume  of  verse  by  William  Wye  Smith, 
then  a  young  man,  23  years  of  age.  This  little  vol- 
ume soon  commanded  considerable  attention,  as  its 
contents  proclaimed  its  author  an  excellent  scholar, 
an  original  thinker,  and  a  gentle,  pure-minded  man. 
Since  that  time  Mr.  Smith  has  given  to  the  world 
many  sweet  and  beautiful  poems  and  religious  pieces 
of  a  lyrical  character,  and  his  name  is  known  and 
honored  from  one  end  of  the  Dominion  to  the  other. 
He  possesses  two  special  characteristics  in  the  writ- 
ing of  poetry,  the  first  being  a  preference  for  religi- 
ous composition,  the  other  a  love  for  writing  in  the 
Scottish  dialect,  and  in  the  possessing  and  using  of 
these  two  features  combined,  he  surpasses  any  Scot- 
tish poet  of  to-day.  It  is  a  very  easy  matter  to 
quote  poems  in  illustrations  of  this,  as  there  is  such 
a  large  number  to  select  from,  and  the  following  one 
is,  therefore,  simply  taken  at  random  as  a  specimen : 


A  FEVER-DREAM. 


O  dawtie,  let  your  een 
See  my  face,  sae  calm,  serene  ; 
And  I'll  tell  ye  whaur  I've  been, 
In  my  fever-dreams  and  a' : — 


REV,   WILLIAM  WYE  SMITH. 


3^5 


H. 


:o,  Canada, 
^ye  Smith, 
s  little  vol- 
ition, as  its 
ent  scholar, 
linded  man. 
o  the  world 
Lgious  pieces 
known  and 
to  the  other, 
in  the  writ- 
he for  religi- 
riting  in  the 
md  using  of 
;es  any  Scot- 
matter  to 
here  is  such 
oUowing  one 
a  specimen : 


I  was  mony  and  tnony  a  mile, 
Through  the  ever-widening  smile 
O'  a  day  that  kens  nae  toil, 
In  the  sweet  Far-Awa'  ! 

There  were  mony  bright  and  blc-t. 
That  about  me  fondly  pressed, 
But  sair  I  needed  rest, 

In  that  joy,  and  peace  and  a*. 
Were  ye  ever  fann'd  wi'  wings 
O'  an  angel  while  he  sings  ? — 
Oh,  the  rest  sic  slumber  brings, 

In  the  sweet  Far-Awa' ! 

Whaur  the  laddie,  puir,  forfairn, 
Hears  nae  mair  the  tyrant  stern  ; 
Whaur  the  mither  finds  her  bairn. 

And  her  tears  are  dried  and  a' ; 
Whaur  the  pilgrim  finds  his  hame, 
And  the  outcast  has  a  name, 
And  our  folly  isna  fame. 

In  the  sweet  Far-Awa' ! 

Oh,  to  bide  forever  there  ! 
Drap  this  wearin'-dud  o'  care, 
And  breathe  that  caller  air, 

Wi'  its  bliss,  and  joy  and  a' ! 
Whaur  the  vera  thocht  o'  sin, 
Dimmin'  heart  and  hope  within, 
Nevemiair  can  enter  in 
To  that  sweet  Far-Awa' ! 


Whaur  the  dream  that  gliutit  by, 
Fadin'  as  it  neared  the  sky, 
Rises  bloomin',  fair  and  high. 
On  the  glory -fields  I  saw ! 


I 


i 


\i 


!  f 


IJy. 


II 


II 


lt:i' 


i 
i  I 


'  > 


1 


?    !'       1! 


i   :  |,         Ulilli 
m    .     ilili 


11! 


J^6 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Wi'  the  wish  that  wantit  might, 
And  the  doubt  that  wantit  light, 
And  the  faith  that  turns  to  sight 
In  the  sweet  Far-Awa'  ! 

I  am  gangin'  hame  the  morn  ! 
For  the  Faither  willna  scorn 
A  puir  weary  wight  forlorn, 

When  his  Son  says,  *'  Come  awa' !  " 
And  the  Freend  I  lang  hae  lo'ed, 
Bids  me  lippen  till  the  blude, 
As  I  cross  the  Border-flude 

To  the  Land  that's  Far-Awa'  ! 

From  an  excellent  sketch  of  Mr.  Smith,  written 
by  the  well-known  Scottish  poet,  Mr.  John  Imrie,  of 
Toronto,  and  recently  published  in  the  "  Maj^azine 
of  Poetry,"  we  lenrn  that  he  was  only  3  years  of 
age  when  his  parents  and  their  yoimg  family  left 
Scotland  to  better  their  circumstances  in  the  New 
World.  His  father's  intention  was  to  sail  for  New 
York,  but,  on  account  of  delays  in  shipping,  he  and 
his  family  took  passage  for  Baltimore,  where  they 
arrived  safely,  and  soon  afterwards  pushed  forward 
to  the  southern  part  of  Ohio.  His  father,  finding 
the  "  rough  and  tumble"  life  of  a  new  country  some- 
what distasteful,  betook  himself  to  liih  iginal 
destination,  that  of  New  York,  '"  Id  more  con- 

genial and   better  suited  to  th  are  educ     :onal 

requirements  of  his  young  famil}  He  emained  in 
New  York,  doing  business  as  a  clothi  jr,  six  years, 
and  here  the  subject  of  our  sketch  received  his  first 
public  school  tuition,  proving  himself  an  apt  pupil, 


REV.   Wit.  LI  AM  WYE  SMITH. 


3»7 


and  there  laying  the  foundation  of  his  future  literary 
career.  His  father's  health  somewhat  failinji;^,  and 
with  a  fancy  for  farming,  he  removed  his  family  to 
the  neighborhood  of  Gait,  Upper  Canada,  where  he 
bought  a  cleared  farm,  and  thus  was  brought  about 
a  break  of  eight  years  in  the  education  of  our  young 
aspirant  for  learning;  but,  being  a  great  reader,  and 
thirsting  for  knowledge,  he  read  and  inwardly  diges- 
ted every  good  book  he  could  lay  his  hands  on.  A 
volume  of  Burns'  poems  was  one  of  his  peculiar 
treasures,  and  his  inborn  taste  and  talent  for  poetry 
were  thereby  educated  and  stimulated,  and  the  style 
of  some  of  his  best  productions  display  the  fact  that 
his  ideal  poet  was  the  Ayrshire  bard.  With  the 
exception  of  about  six  months  in  a  country  school, 
Mr.  Smith  had  no  means  of  a  practical  education 
other  than  his  own  untiring  diligence  after  working 
hours  on  his  father's  farm.  How  successful  he  was 
may  be  judged  by  the  fact  that  at  eighteen  he 
obtained  a  position  as  school  teacher  in  the  village  of 
St.  George,  which  position  he  held  for  a  year,  and 
thus  earned  funds  for  future  travels  in  search  of  a 
higher  education.  He  went  to  New  York  and  was 
greatly  benefited  by  industrious  application  during 
two  terms  in  the  classical  department  of  the  Univer- 
sity Grammar  School  in  that  city.  By  this  time  our 
young  poet  had  gathered  together  almost  a  volume 
of  creditable  effusions  which  had  appeared  from  time 
to  time  in  local  papers  in  Canada,  and  in  New  York 
city. 


:J 


cmv! 


imim'^wimmJKK»'..-*wmmmmmmimmimmi 


1  I 


i^5 


,7  CLUSTER  OF  FOE  IS. 


In  1 85 1  he  married,  and  started  business  as  a 
general  storekeeper  ir.  St.  George.  About  this  time 
his  success  as  a  writer  of  prose  as  well  as  poetry  was 
demonstrated  by  a  prize  of  $100  being  awarded  him 
by  the  Sons  of  Temperance  for  an  essay  advocating 
the  Prohibitory  Liquor  law  in  Canada.  Early  in 
the  year  1855  he  removed  his  business  to  Owen 
Sound,  on  the  Georgian  Bay,  then  a  very  isolated 
part  of  the  country.  A  couple  of  years  afterward, 
on  being  appointed  to  a  clerkship  of  one  of  the 
courts,  he  gave  up  his  business  as  storekeeper,  and 
devoted  himself  for  the  next  six  or  seven  years  to 
the  duties  of  his  office.  During  these  years  his 
spare  time  was  spent  in  courting  the  muse,  and  as 
editor  and  publisher  of  the  **  Sunday  School  Dial,"  a 
monthly  publication,  the  first  illustrated  S.  S.  paper 
printed  in  Upper  Ctmada.  The  yea*  1862  was 
spent  in  revisiting  the  land  of  his  birth — "bonnie 
Scotland" — and  he  returned,  benefited  in  health, 
improved  by  intellectual  travel,  and  a  more  than 
ever  an  enthusiastic  Scottish-Canadian.  In  1863  he 
bought  out  the  Owen  Sound  "Times,"  and  contin- 
ued to  edit  and  publish  it  for  a  period  of  two  years ; 
but  in  1865,  being  invited  to  become  the  pastor  01 
the  Congregational  Church  in  Listowel,  Ontario,  he 
sold  out  the  "Times"  to  the  present  proprietor. 
For  about  twelve  years  he  was  the  Canadian  corres- 
pondent of  the  Edinburgh  "Daily  Review."  and 
acted  as  their  special  correspondent  at  the  Centen- 
nial Exhibition  in  1876.     After  a  pastorate  of  four 


REV.   WILLIAM  WYE  SMITH. 


329 


less  as  a 
this  time 
)etry  was 
rded  him 
ivocating 
Early  in 
to  Owen 
y  isolated 
ifterward, 
ne  of  the 
eper,  and 
n  years  to 
years  his 
se,  and  as 
bl  Dial,"  a 
\  S.  paper 
1862    was 
— *'bonnie 
in   health, 
nore   than 
n  1863  he 
ind  contin- 
two  years ; 
pastor  o£ 
ntario,  he 
I'oprietor. 
lian  corres- 
liew."   and 
le  Centen- 
ite  of  four 


years  in  Listowel,  he  accepted  a  call  to  the  congre- 
gation of  Pine  Grove,  near  Toronto,  which  position 
he  held  for  nine  years.  Afterwards  he  served  a 
Congregational  Church  for  three  years  in  the  Eastern 
Townships  of  Quebec,  near  the  Vermont  border. 
He  is  now  a  resident  of  vSt.  Catharines,  Ontario,  and 
devotes  his  time  to  editorial  work  in  connection  with 
the  "Canadian  Independent,"  the  organ  of  the  Con- 
gregational body  in  the  Dominion.  During  all  these 
years  many  a  poetical  production  of  his  appeared  in 
the  daily  press  of  Canada,  the  United  States,  and 
the  motherland." 

The  bi/thplace  of  Mr.  Smith  is  given  as  the 
old  historical  town  of  Jedburgh;  and  this  reminds 
me  of  a  weird  piece  of  poetical  writing  that  appears 
in  his  latest  volume.  It  is  written  in  a  peculiar  and 
quaint  measure,  and  contains  quite  a  large  number 
of  rare  old  Scottish  words.     The  title  is : 

THK  GHOST  THAT  DANCED  AT  JETHART. 

When  glide  King  Aylsander  was  marriet, 

'Twas  lung  syne,  kinimer,  i'  the  town  o'  Jethart ; 
Stane-biggit,  Abl)ey-crowned,  auld  Borler  chichan, 
Whiles  I  hae  thocht  on  greetin',  and  whiles  lauchin', 
Just  as  fond  memory  wi'  the  past  forguther't, 
And  down  Time's  stream  was  carriet. 

And  the  King  strode  through  the  Abbey  ha', 

Wi'  the  stride  o'  a  battle  field  ; 
He  was  neither  a  callant  to  mind  your  ca', 

Nor  yet  was  a  man  o'  eild. 


■-♦";! 

m 


w^ 


r    ;ri 


330 


>     I 


'    llilMi 
i   'ill.'  ii 


W  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


But  a  man — we  never  saw  but  ane, 

Nor  ever  saw  him  more  ! 
The  King  we  wiss't  for  aye  could  reign, 
And  the  gentle  queen  on  his  arm  remain, 
A  treasured  jewel  in  joy  and  pain. 
And  gladness  come  to  ilk  hame  again, 

The  braid  land  o'er  ! 

And  at  his  knee  the  courtiers  bowed, 

And  gentle  ladies  fair ; 
Nor  kenned  that  the  Abbot  grumbled  loud, 
That  a'  the  town  had  come,  a  loyal  crowd. 

To  bend  the  knee,  and  then  a  measure  take, 
A  generous  dance,  wi'  lord  and  lady  in't — 
And  landwart  lassie,  fresh  frae  pu'in  lint — 

A'  merry  for  his  sake  ! 

But  the  King  said,  "  Every  ane  enjoy  hisel' ; 

For  a  king's  no  marriet  every  day  ! 
And  the  only  thing  a  man  can  tell 
Is,  Tak  the  sunshine  while  ye  may  ! " 

When  gude  King  Aylsander  was  marriet, 
The  provost  and  the  bailies  o'  the  town. 

The  waukers,  wabsters,  and  the  smiths  and  souters. 

The  merchants,  millers,  and  the  caudron-clouters. 
And  every  cadger  frae  the  country  roun'. 

Wad  celebrate  the  Weddin'. 

And  a'  the  town  was  ta'en  wi*  dancin', 

Frae  the  Town-fit  to  the  Abbey  ! 

A'  dancin'  to  the  weel-bein  o'  the  King ; 

An'  Ringan  Hastie  cam', 

The  first  Town-Piper  o'  the  ancient  borough. 

And  a  lang  lad  wi'  a  bassoon  yet  langer, 

And  whillie-wha's,  and  instruments  o'  clangor. 

And  kettle-drums,  and  fifes  to  pierce  lugs  thorough, 

And  harps,  and  men  to  sing ! 


REV.   WILLIAM  WYE  SMITH. 


33' 


I, 


take, 


pl'; 


Ind  souters, 
clouters, 


jlangor, 
rs  thorough, 


And  the  King  sate  at  his  Marriage-feast, 

Wi'  the  Queen  at  his  left  hand ; 
And  lords  and  ladies  gather't  there, 
Round  the  table  heaped  wi'  dainty  fare, 
And  that  stretched  awa'  to  the  outer  air ! — 
(And  wha'  coudna  find  a  seat  to  spare, 

Gat  ilk  ane's  leave  to  stand  !) 

Then  flowed  the  yill,  as  large  as  Jed  in  simmer. 

And  whangs  o'  cheese  and  bannocks 

High  towered  in  cairns  along  the  groanin'  board 

Wi'  pears  and  apples  frae  the  carefu'  hoard 
o'  burgess  loyal ; 
An'  h-ggis,  tripe,  and  every  dainty  stored 

For  feast  sae  royal ! 

And,  like  a  hailstorm  through  the  forest  grand, 

A  rushing  dinnle. 
Began  the  dance,  sworn  to  keep  on  till  morn — 
E'en  crazy  eild  intil  the  swirl  was  borne — 

And  "  Jethart's  Here  !  "  roar't  out  bow-legged  Tam 
Tinnle 
When  sudden  cam  a  stand  ! 

Bvt  still  the  patter  o'  a  pair  o*  feet 

Was  heard  fu'  right ! 
The  lad  had  fainted  wi'  the  lang  bassoon. 
An'  kettle-drums  an'  fifes  were  in  a  swoon. 
And  harpers  glowered  atween  their  silent  thairms 

On  sic  a  sight ! 

It  jousl't  wi'  its  elbucks  e'en  the  King — 

And  maskers  fled — 
For  ne'er  in  masquerade  had  sic  a  thing 

Been  seen  or  read  ! 
It  wasna  leevin',  yet  'twas  dancin',  loupin', 
An'  ower  the  provost  it  was  nearly  coupin', 

Sic  whirls  it  led ! 


\    \ 


!!»'  ' 


332 


A   CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


It  had  a  plume  as  it  had  been  a  baron, 

Wi'  feathers  hie — 
A  kilt  wi'  gold  brocade  an'  siller  lacin', 
An'  dainty  doublet  wi'  a  braw,  braw  facin', 

But  hon-och-rie  ! 
It  was  an  atomy,  a  thing  o'  banes, 

That  wadna  dee  ! 

It  lightly  trod  the  airy  min-e-wae. 
An'  crackt  its  fleshless  thoombs ; 
An'  linked  wi'  unseen  partners  down  the  floor, 
As  country-dance  was  never  danced  before  ! 
An'  girned  an'  boo'd  to  leddies  on  the  dais — 
Then  flittit  frae  the  place  ! 

••  Ho  !  Tarn  the  Tip  !  "  cried  out  the  Provost  bauld, 

"Bring  back  yon  loon  ! 
We'll  pit  him  where  he  winna  be  sae  yauld, 
An'  gie  him  time  to  blaw  his  parritch  cauld  ! 
He  might  hae  hid  his  banes  wi'  decent  garb — 

Affrontin'  the  Town  !  " 


i     i 


-liHIl 


But  ne'er  was  seen  that  merrie  ghost  again, 

In  Jethart  dear ! 
Her  battle-axes  fell  on  Southron  shields, 
Her  sturdy  spearman  won  victorious  fields — 

And  "  Jethart's  Here  !  " 
Rung  down  the  ages,  as  the  battle  plain 

Its  heroes  gather 't — 
But  one,  and  only  one,  shall  that  remain — 

The  Ghost  o'  Jethart ! 

''I  have  not  invented  this  ghost,"  says  Mr.  Smith, 
'  *  I  find  it  narrated  as  something  that  would  be  the 
better  of  explanation,  but  has  never  been  explained, 


\\\\  I 


REV.   WILLIAM  WYE  SMITH. 


333 


that  at  a  masquerade  ball  given  in  Jedburgh,  in 
1285,  on  the  occasion  of  the  marriage  of  Alexander 
III.,  a  ghost  danced  1  Sir  Michael  Scot  (the  'Wiz- 
ard,') who  was  then  living,  was  the  best  man  to  have 
explained  it;  but,  though  he  wrote  of  everything — 
rams'  flesh  and  bishops — pot  herbs  and  wicked 
women — kings  and  emperors  and  the  roasting  of 
cggF  —the  dignity  of  friendship  and  whether  fishes 
chew  their  food — he  has  never  told  us  a  word  in 
explanation  of  *  The  Ghost  that  Danced  at  Jethart  / 
It  was  perhaps  a  pious  fraud  of  the  Abbot  and 
monks,  not  well  pleased  at  so  much  hilarity  in  the 
Abbey.  Hector  Boece  distinctly  says  '  A  skeleton 
danced  ! '" 

In  1888  Mr.  Smith  published  through  Messrs. 
Dudley  &  Burns,  of  Toronto,  a  collection  of  his 
poems  in  a  .small  octavo  volume  of  265  pages.  The 
volume  was  well  received  by  his  admirers  every- 
where, and  several  of  the  leading  papers  in  Canada 
and  in  Scotland  devoted  considerable  space  to  favor- 
able notices  of  it.  There  are  no  less  than  175  pieces 
in  the  volume,  and  these  are  classified  under  the 
headings  of  ''Miscellaneous,"  "Canadian,"  "Scot- 
tish," "Religious,"  "Psalms,"  and  "Children's 
Pieces."  It  is  needless  to  say  that  all  of  these  com- 
positions are  in  a  masterly  style.  Open  the  book  at 
random  and  the  eye  will  alight  on  the  musings  of  a 
true  poet.  There  are  beautiful  lines,  inspiring 
thoughts,  bright  similes,  melodious  rhymes,  and  the 
choicest  of  language  displa5cd  on  every  page,  and 


n 


rll 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


when  Mr.  Smith  published  his  poems  in  this  perma- 
nent form  he  added  a  valuable  contribution  to  the 
now  steadily  increasing  poetical  literature  of  Canada. 
Among  the  poems  in  the  book  are  many  of  tender 
and  deeply  pathetic  interest,  and  which  serve  to 
show  that  Mr.  Smith  is  possessed  of  a  large  and  sym- 
pathetic heart.  "Wee  Jeanie,"  "Our  Bonnie 
Bairn's  Asleep,"  "James  Guthrie,"  "The  Martyr  of 
Solway  Sands,"  "Wallace's  Farewell  to  Marion," 
and  various  others  are  exceedingly  touching  poems, 
and  will  always  be  treasured  by  people  who  are 
specially  interested  in  this  particular  kind  of  poetry. 
There  is  another  poem,  however,  "Robert  Fergus- 
son,"  which  also  belongs  to  this  class,  and  which 
possesses  a  peculiar  interest  for  all  lovers  of  the 
Scottish  muse.  In  Whitelavv's  "Book  of  Scottish 
Song  "we  read,  "An  incident  strikingly  illustrative 
of  the  unhappy  destiny  af  the  young  poet,  and  at  the 
same  time  of  the  honorable  esteem  in  which  he  was 
held  by  those  who  knew  him,  must  not  remain  un- 
told. Shortly  after  his  death  a  letter  came  from 
India  directed  to  him,  inclosing  a  draft  for  ;^ioo, 
and  inviting  him  thither,  where  a  lucrative  position 
was  promised  to  him.  The  letter  and  draft  were 
from  an  old  and  attached  school  fellow,  a  Mr.  Bur- 
net, whose  name  deserves  to  be  forever  linked  with 
Fergusson's  for  this  act  of  munificent,  though  fruit- 
less generosity."  And  on  this  incident  Mr.  Smith 
composed  the  following: 


REV,  WILLIAM  WYE  SMITH. 


335 


tiis  pertna- 
ion  to  the 
of  Canada. 

of  tender 
h  serve  to 
e  and  sym- 
>ur    Bonnie 
-  Martyr  of 
o  Marion," 
ling  poems, 
le  who  are 
d  of  poetry, 
jert  Fergus- 

and  which 
Dvers  of  the 
;  of  Scottish 
^  illnstrative 
3t,  and  at  the 
vhich  he  was 
t  remain  nn- 
came  from 
\it  for  £^oOy 
ative  position 
,d  draft  were 
V,  a  Mr.  Biir- 
ir  linked  with 

though  fmit- 
nt  Mr.  Smith 


ROBERT  FERGUSSON. 

"  O  come  to  the  Indies,  Rab ! 

For  the  skies  of  the  East  are  aglow  ; 
There's  hope  for  thy  bosom,  and  light  for  thine  eyes, 

There's  wealth  at  thy  bosom  to  flow  !  " 
'Twas  thus  to  the  minstrel  he  sent. 

With  a  pledge  from  his  brotherly  hand ; 
As  he  lay  at  noon  in  his  sultry  tent, 

And  dreamed  of  his  native  land  ! 

Swift  sails  the  message  bore 

Through  spicy  isles  of  the  sea  ; 
But  the  bard  or  ever  it  reached  the  shore. 

Had  laid  down  his  head  to  dee  ! 
They  could  kindle  and  glow  at  his  strains, 

Or  weep  'neath  his  minstrel  wand — 
But  they  left  him  to  die  amid  clanking  chains. 

In  the  heart  of  his  native  land  1 

Alas,  for  a  friend  at  hand 

Wi'  a  bosom  as  tender  and  true — 
And  a  cheering  word  for  the  hapless  bard. 

Like  the  lad  ower  the  ocean  blue. 
Soon,  soon  was  thy  harp  untuned 

That  might  lang  hae  been  strung  wi'  glee — 
And  mony  wakened  to  find  thee  fled, 

They  wad  hae  gien  gowd  to  see  ! 

O  sweetest  and  kindliest  Rab ; 

Heart  broken,  yet  brither  to  a' ; 
How  young  and  how  fair  thy  brow  to  bear 

The  sorrows  that  were  thy  fa' ! 
I4ke  the  minstrel  wha  set  thee  a  stane. 

The  Plowman  Laddie  o'  Ayr, 
"We'll  drap  a  saut  tear  ower  thy  lowly  bier, 

And  a'  that  lies  buried  there  !  " 


I 


■^t  \ 


M 


''Sa 


iS 


i 


;|?. 


!!i:. 


336 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POE'IS. 


^  h 


u 


Gifted  but  ill-fated  Robert  Feri^usson !  Death 
claimed  him  at  the  ajj^e  of  28,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  gloomy  and  miserable  surroundini^s  of  all — a 
madhouse.  Burns,  it  inay  be  remembered,  on  his 
first  visit  to  Edinburgh,  sought  out  the  poet's  almost 
neglected  grave  in  the  old  and  historic  Canongate 
Churchyard,  and  at  his  own  expense  erected  a  stone 
at  the  head  of  it.  All  honor  to  the  memory  of 
Burns,  were  it  for  nothing  more  than  this  noble  and 
generous  action  \  The  late  true-hearted  Scottish 
poet,  James  Ballantine,  took  Fergus.son's  grave 
under  his  special  care,  and  had  a  margin  of  shells 
around  it,  brought  from  Ayr.  After  reading  the 
above  poem,  he  wrote  to  Mr.  vSmith : 

'•Should  we  have  met  when  you  were  here,  I 
should  have  joined  you  in  your  pilgrimage  to  Fer- 
gusvson's  grave,  and  shed  tears  together  over  the 
poor,  dear  fellow,  and  true  Scotsman." 

Included  in  Mr.  Smith's  latest  volume  are  many 
beautiful  lyrical  pieces^  all  of  which  are  deserving  of 
special  mention.  There  is  a  simplity  of  language 
used  in  their  composition,  and  they  are  remarkably 
sweet,  both  in  thought  and  exprCvSsion.  They  prove 
that  their  author  is  possessed  of  an  exquisite  lyric 
note  and  a  pure  taste.  We  quote  the  following  as 
specimens. 


THE  BIRDIE  THAT'S  WANTIN'  A  WING. 


They  say  there's  a  birdie  that's  wantin'  a  wing, 
Ower  the  sea  ;  ower  the  sea  ; 


RF.V.   WIIJJAM  WYE  SMITH. 


337 


He  neither  can  flie,  nor  yet  can  he  sing — 

Ower  the  sea  ;  ower  the  se  i, 
Bnt  he  finds  him  a  mate— sae  he's  no  sae  I)ereft ; 
He  h.as  a  rijjht  win.tj,  and  she  has  a  left  ; 
And  they  link  on  thej^ither,  and  aff  they  ^ac  daft 

Ower  the  sea  ;  ower  the  sea  ! 

They  say  there's  a  birdie  that  wantin'  a  note, 

Ower  tlie  sea  ;  ower  the  sea  ; 
And  a'  the  hij^h  sounds  seem  to  stick  in  his  throat, 

Ower  the  sea  ;  ower  the  sea. 
Rut  he  finds  him  a  mate  wi'  the  hij^h  notes  sae  clear — 
He  has  the  bass,  and  she  has  the  air — 
And  "Turn  about,  Tibbie?" — the  sang's  rich  and  rare! — 

Ower  the  sea  ;  ower  the  sea  ! 

I  teirt  it  to  Kate  ;  and  I  thought  I  was  slee  ; 

By  the  dyke-stane  ;  by  the  dyke-siane. 
And  in  the  bit  birdie  I  ho{)ed  she'd  see  me, 

Dowie  and  fain  ;  dowie  and  fain. 
*'  It  was  a  daft  ditty,"  she  sai<l,  "  she  must  say  ; 
And  when  a  chield  tuubi  his  love-tale  in  that  way, 
She  thought  it  was  time  that  his  tongue  he  let  play, 

And   spak   his  mind   plain  !    and   spak  his 
mind  plain  !" 


O,  the  sun  it  cam  out,    and  the  birds  they  sang  clear  ! 

Ower  the  lea  ;  ower  the  lea  ! 
And  the  lass  that  I  lo'ed  seemed  never  sae  dear 

Ever  to  me,    ever  to  nie  ! 
The  wing  that  was  wantin',  I  faimd  it  complete  ! 
The  sang  that  was  mantin',  was  perfect  and  sweet ! 
And  twa  Scottish  lovers,  twa  hearts  with  ae  beat, 

Sat  there  by  the  sea  ;  sat  there  by  the  sea  ! 


r.,1 


s' 
i 

if'f 


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k             1        1 

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f 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


A  SIMMER  MORN. 

'Tis  the  lilting  o'  the  laverock, 

As  he  flits  the  clouds  amang, 
And  the  wind  is  blawin'  mouthfu's 

To  the  pulses  o'  his  sang — 
I  never  kent  what  gar't  the  wind 

Blaw  mouthfu's  at  a  time, 
Till  I  heard  the  mornin'  laverock, 

And  the  owerconie  o'  his  rhyme  ! 

And  it's  up,  and  ever  upward. 

Till  he  canna  farther  win, 
Unless  through  Heaven's  unsteekit  yett 

He  fairly  enters  in — 
And  the  bonnie  gowan  waukens. 

And  her  blush  becomes  a  lowe, 
Whaur  'mang  the  dew  she  hiddlit 

In  the  shelter  o'  the  howe. 

And  the  sun  is  shining  on  the  fell. 

And  rising  as  he  shines, 
While  the  mellow-throatit  mavis  chirms 
A  wheen  unstudied  lines ; 
And  the  shepherd  whussles  in  his  joy, 

His  collie  at  his  fit ; 
Till,  fain  to  feel  sic  happiness, 

My  vera  heart  grows  grit ! 

And  there,  amang  Creation's  joy. 

My  bannet  in  my  han' — 
I  pour  my  thanks  for  sic  a  morn, 

My  thanks  for  sic  a  Ian' ! 
And  ever  pray  my  future  day 

Sic  simmer  suns  may  see ; 
And  aye  some  laverock  singin'  clear 

At  ween  the  Heavens  and  me  ! 


REV.   WILLIAM  WYE  SMITH. 


339 


A  prominent  New  York  weekly,  in  rcviewinjif  Mr. 
Smith's  volume,  said : 

'•  The  Rev.  Wm.  Wye  »Smith  has  published  a  vol- 
ume of  his  collected  poems  which  oiijjht  to  be 
warmly  welcomed  throughout  the  Dominion  and 
wherever  lovers  of  true  poetry  are  to  be  found.  The 
poems,  which  refer  to  Canada,  have  the  true  ring 
about  them.  They  are  sturdy,  independent  and 
hopeful.  Many  of  the  Scotch  poems  are  marked  by 
pure  patriotism,  lofty  sentiments  and  pretty  fancies. 
The  Doric  is  simple,  natural  and  unaffected.  The 
religious  poems  possess  great  merit,  and  many  of 
them  have  enjoyed  a  wide  popularity.  We  cordially 
commend  this  volume  to  our  readers  everywhere. " 

Were  it  necessary  we  might  say  considerably  more 
in  regard  to  Mr.  Smith's  poetical  abilities.  But  we 
presume  our  readers  will  agree  with  us  that  he  is  in 
all  respects  a  true  son  of  song,  without  our  saying  or 
quoting  anything  further.  He  is  actively  engaged 
in  literary  work,  and  accomplishes  much  in  this  di- 
rection every  year.  He  has  also  won  renown  from 
the  many  portions  of  Scripture  that  he  has  translated 
into  the  Scotch,  and  each  of  these  is,  to  say  the 
least,  a  literary  curiosity. 


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ALBERT  E.  S.  SMYTHE. 


Mr.  Albert  E.  vS.  Smythc  is  entitled  to  a  promi- 
nent place  amonp;  risini,^  Canadian  poets.     His  volume 
entitled    "  Poems   Grave   and   Gay,"   recently   pub- 
lished by  Messrs.    Imrie  and  Graham,  of  T(<ronto, 
contains   numerous   poems   of   dislinj:fuished    merit, 
while  there  is  not  a  sinecle   piece   in   it  v/hich  one 
mi^dit  term  frivolous  or  insignificant.     In  reviewinij^ 
the   book   soiue  time   aj^^o,    the   Dominioti  Illustrated 
said:   "  His  poems  show  him  a  man  of  rare  insight, 
high  thought,  pure  taste  and  good  education,"  while 
Canada  paid  him  a  unique  and  well  deserved  compli- 
ment   by   saying:      "The   author    has    more    than 
ordinary  poetic  talent.     There  is  thought  and  sense 
and  imagination  in  the  book,   and  this  is  certainly 
more  than  can  be  said  of  much  of  the  verse  that  is 
publivshed  nowadays."     Delicacy,   tenderness   and  a 
sacred  feeling  of  the  highest  order  are  depicted  in 
most  of  our  author's  work,  while  his  st3ie,  except  in 
his   humorous   poems,    is  of  a  subdued  and    gentle 
character,  his  taste  refined,  his  similes  original  and 
his   langiiage  graphic  and  musical.     The  following 
brief  piece  may  be  taken  as  showing  these  particular 
qualities: 

THE  FIRST  WORD. 

An  angel  came 
And  stood  beside  the  cradle  of  a  cliild 
And  spoke  its  name  ; 


ALliERT  E.  S.  SMYTIIE 


34' 


And  near  ))y  lay  the  mother,  sleep  beguiled, 
A  little  space  to  sorrow  reconciled. 

His  whisper  woke 
The  babe,  who  feared  not  at  the  {.gracious  si;;ht, 

And  smiles  outbroke 
Upon  its  infant  face,  and  sweet  and  bri^dit 
His  answering  smile  made  suining  in  the  night. 

Gently  he  took, 
As  with  a  father's  care,  the  fatherless, 

And  let  it  look 
On  her  who  lay  in  widowed  loneliness, 
Half-happy  in  some  dreamed  of,  dead  caress. 

There  he  instilled 
In  it  the  knowledge  of  her  motherhood, 

Forever  filled 
With  love,  and  care,  and  quick  solicitude. 
Guarding  from  evil,  guiding  unto  good. 

And  having  trained 
The  infant  lips  to  voice  that  darling  name 

That  lives  unstiiined 
Beyond  all  speech  of  blessing  or  of  blame. 
He  passed  away  in  silence  as  he  came. 

At  break  of  day 
The  babe  awoke  upon  its  mother's  breast. 

And  as  it  lay 
Called  her  that  dearest  name.     And  she  confessed 
The  Lord  is  God  who  makes  affliction  blessed. 

Other  poems  of  the  same  affectionate  caste  are 
"Evangeline,"  ''Betrothed,"  ''Dark  Eyes,"  "Life's 
Fairy  Tale,"  and  "Lough  Swilly."  In  a  brief  note 
to  his  volume,  Mr.  Smythe  says : 


!!'i 


343 


rl  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


"In  the  autumn  of  '82  the  writer  first  discovered 
himself  in  the  columns  of  a  leading  London  journal. 
Perhaps  nothing  that  a  stern  critic  might  say  could 
evoke  chagrin  equal  to  that  felt  on  learning  that 
certain  friends  and  acquaintances  had  escaped  hear- 
ing of  the  occurrence;  and  perhaps  no  lenient 
reviewer  could  give  more  pleasure  than  the  congrat- 
ulations of  those  who  had  been  more  alert.  Nine 
years  since  then  of  hard-working  commercial  life  in 
Belfast,  in  Chicago,  in  Edinburgh,  and  in  Toronto 
might  indeed  have  dulled  one's  susceptibilities,  but 
as  enough  spare  time  has  been  found  for  the  plan- 
ning and  penning  of  these  pages,  so  the  sensitiveness 
has  not  been  wholly  stifled  which  derives  great  satis- 
faction from  a  kindly  reception. " 

The  poem  referred  to  at  the  beginning  of  the 
above  note  as  having  appeared  in  the  London 
Graphic  \^  ihQ  owe.  entitled  "Eva,"  as  sweet  a  piece 
of  lyrical  poetry,  by  the  way,  as  one  would  wish  to 
read.  The  sentiment  is  exceedingly  tender,  the 
melody  fascinating,  the  moral  tone  pleasing,  and 
taken  altogether  it  is  perhaps  the  finest  of  Mr. 
Smythe's  poems. 

EVA. 

High,  high,  in  the  westerly  sky 

Lingers  the  day  as  I  linger  by  thee  ; 
Slow,  slow,  from  the  darkness  below 

Creeps  the  night  over  the  brim  of  the  sea. 

Soft,  soft,  to  the  sea-birds  aloft, 

Whisper  the  waters  that  toss  on  the  shore, 


ALBERT  E,  S.  SMYTH E. 


3i3 


Rare,  rare,  from  the  mermaiden's  hair, 
Scattered  and  sparkling,  the  jewels  they  wore. 

Far,  far,  there  is  shining  a  star 
Pure  as  the  ';v  iicon  a  seraph  woixld  burn, 

Clear,  clear,  tliat  poor  wanderers  here, 
Seeing  it  lead  them,  a  pathway  might  learn. 

Soon,  soon,  will  the  silvery  moon 
Glow  through  a  glory  of  luminous  mist, 

Pale,  pale,  in  her  vaporous  veil, 
Down  on  the  flowers  thai  look  up  to  be  kitised. 

Then  then,  when  the  children  of  men 
Seal  up  their  souls  with  a  slumbering  spell, 

Sweet,  sweet — and  till  morn  when  we  meet 
Angels  will  guard  thee  and  comfort  thee  well. 


In  his  humorous  poems,  sech  as  *'In  Lodgings," 
"OiiLOtthe  Left,"  -'The  Peanut  Ballads,"  ''Fate 
the  jViilkman,"  **  Eye  Wisdom,"  and  various  others, 
l»ir.  Smythe  proves  himself  to  be  a  capital  story- 
teller as  well  as  an  excellent  poet.  Nor  are  these 
humorous  pieces  simply  of  local  or  passing  interest. 
They  contain  many  linet:  and  similes  which  are 
worthy  of  preservation,  and  although  the  incidents 
which  they  chronicle  have  necessarily  to  be  written 
or  explained  in  a  humorous  vein,  still  there  is  always 
a  lesson  to  be  learned  from  them,  or  else  some  good 
wholesome  thoughts  for  reflection  will  be  found 
em.bodied  in  them.     Take  the  following  for  example : 


HiJl  !i 


jV/ 


,/   CLUSTER   OF  POETS. 


BOB  AND  THE  STARS. 

A   VKPSION. 

We  went  to  the  window,  Bob  and  I, 
Sonieoiie  declaring  the  night  so  fine, 

And  watched  the  wonderful  winter  sky 
Sparkle  with  frosty  stars  and  shine, 

And  gleam,  I  thought,  like  the  hugely  high 
Cavern-roof  of  a  jewel  mine. 

r;ob  is  a  small  philosopher  ; 

I  am  the  sire  of  the  teiider  sage, 
And  lialf  expect  him  to  make  a  stir 

Out  in  the  world  when  he  comes  of  age, 
Though  as  yet  his  infant  character 

Only  lias  reached  th'e  hopeful  stage. 

Bobby  has  curious  thoughts  and  wise ; 

Some,  like  himself,  could  stand  alone. 
Yet  might,  when  they  leave  a  father's  eyes, 

Tumble  down  or  be  overthrown, 
For  norie  can  properly  sympathize 

With  thoughts  or  children  not  his  own. 

Now  this  winter  night  in  the  starry  light, 

liol)  said  a  notable  thing  to  me  ; 
He  asked  and  his  voice  so  low  and  slight 

Sounded  somewhere  about  my  knee — 
"  If  the  bottom  of  heaven  looks  so  bright, 

Father,  what  must  the  inside  be  ?  " 

The  Toronto  Globe  referring  to  Mr.  Smythe's 
work  on  one  occasion,  remarked  that  some  of  the 
poems  in  the  volume  are  very  channini^  bits  of  fancy, 
and  the  author  excels  as  to  the  daintiness  of  his  com- 


ALliEKl  E.  S.  SMYTH E. 


345 


parisons  in  the  flower  poems  of  which  there  are 
many  in  his  book.  This  remark  is  indeed  very  true. 
Some  of  his  poems  on  flowers  are  really  remarkable 
for  their  beauty  and  freshness  and  finish.  They 
possess  a  pure  poetic  sound  which  no  one  who  reads 
them  can  fail  to  note.  Among  the  principal  ones 
we  may  mention  "Flowers,"  "Breeze  and  Blos- 
som," "Roses,"  "January  Violets,"  "May  Blos- 
soms" and  "Lilies,"  the  last  named  piece  touching 
on  "The  Calla  Lily,"  "The  Tiger  Lily,"  "The 
Water  Lily,"  and  the  "Lily  of  the  Valley,"  as 
follows: 

LILIEvS. 

I.      THE  CAUvA   UI<V. 


When  the  lofty  peerless  lily, 
Silver-browed  and  chastely  chilly, 
Hides  the  dream  on  which  she  museth 
What  a  world  the  poet  loseth  ! 
She  is  queenly  on  her  stem, 
Though  she  wear  no  diadem. 
And  she  knows  she  is  a  queen, 
Self-contained,  self-ruled,  serene ; 
No  supremacy  requiring. 
No  predominance  desiring, 
Owning  such  estate  of  beauty 
Reverence  becomes  a  duty. 
Thus  there  dwells  the  stainless  form 
Even  fancy  fails  to  warm 
With  the  dainty  blossom-hues 
Morning  freshens  with  her  dews. 


..fipwral 


u(> 


rl  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


111!! 


!;in 


II.      THE  TIGER  I.I1,Y. 

Edith's  throat  of  marble  whiteness 
Shamed  the  tiger  lilies'  brightness 
Where  they  blazoned,  fiery,  flaming, 
Their  imperial  rank  proclaiming. 
They  were  proud  and  passionate, 
She  was  haughty,  but  sedate  ; 
Heedless  in  her  tranquil  pride 
Though  neglected  or  belied  ; 
But  they  courted  admiration 
And  grew  faint  with  emulation. 
Thus  for  contrast  Edith  wore  them, 
And  a  comely  one  she  bore  them  ; 
They,  all  eager  to  be  seen, 
Curled  their  leaves  with  conscious  mien, 
Edith  passed  along  too  proud 
To  regard  the  gazing  crowd. 


III.      THE   WATER   I<II,Y. 

Lonely,  beautiful  and  stilly 

Floats  each  leafy  water  lily, 

Never  rival  claim  contesting. 

Only  radiant — only  resting 

Through  a  pleasant  summer  dream 

On  a  gentle,  gentle  stream  : 

Dying  on  the  brimming  flood 

Calmly  as  they  came  to  bud. 

All  the  lilies,  liquid-lustred 

With  the  dew-drops  that  have  clustered 

In  their  shallow,  limpid  hollo  ws 

Where  the  gnats  avoid  the  swallows. 

In  the  loving  waters  grow. 

While  their  shadows  shine  below, 

But  their  sheltered  hearts  of  gold 

Unreflectedly  unfold. 


.  /  /.  BER  T  E.  S.  SM )  THE. 


3J7 


itered 


/s, 


IV.      THE   Ijr.Y   OF   THE    VALI^EY. 

Tiny  tinkling  bells  of  beauty 

Peal  forth  elfin  calls  to  duty, 

And  the  fairy  people  rally 

Round  the  lilies  of  the  valle}'. 

Lady  Alice  one  day  took 

From  the  valley  where  they  shook 

ySuch  a  burden  of  the  bells 

Silence  fell  among  the  dells. 

Cn  her  bosom,  though,  she  hung  them 

Where  her  laughter  lightly  swung  them 

Till  the  fairy  forces  hearing 

How  they  chimed,  all  came  careering, 

And  they  crowded  close  and  pressed 

Round  her  lily-laden  breast ; 

There  she  bound  them — snared  with  art — 

Slaves  forever  in  her  heart ! 

Included  in  "Poems  Grave  and  Gay  "  are  also  a 
number  of  deeply  pathetic  pieces  which  prove  that 
Mr.  Smytlie  possesses  a  warm  Christian  heart,  and 
that  he  can  extend  true  sympathy  and  consolation  to 
others  in  an  hour  of  trouble,  or  when  the  ang^el  of 
death  passes  over  their  beloved  thresholds.  There 
is  a  hopeful,  resigned  spirit  ring-ing-  throughout 
them,  and  they  will  always  be  classed  among  our 
author's  most  successful  compositions.  "Jessie," 
"Edith's  Grave,"  "In  the  Twilight,"  -'Good-bye 
My  Wife  "  and  "  Fading"  are  all  very  beautiful  and 
touching  poems,  and  they  appeal  to  th  •  heart  in  a 
very  direct  manner,  and  help  to  bind  un  the  wounds 
of  the  afflicted.  W<:  append  the  last  named  piece  as 
a  specimen : 


.1*  ^3 


348 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


FADING. 

She  moved  about  with  quiet  tread, 

With  weary  steps  we  still  remember  ; 
The  sunshine  kissed  he*-  drooping  head, 

Like  golden  leaves  in  sad  September. 
But  though  the  chilling  winds  would  shake, 

As  yet  they  only  breathed  a  warning  ; 
And  though  she  slept,  she  still  would  wake, 

And  still  we  found  her  with  the  morning. 


'<  n 


Her  evtry  act,  and  all  her  words 

Were  flowers  untimely  in  October, 
That  gladdened  faintly  when  the  birds. 

Growl'  silent,  left  us  grave  and  sober. 
We  scarcely  felt  that  we  were  glad 

To  have  her  yet  a  little  longer. 
We  dared  not  think  that  we  were  sad 

She  did  not  leave  us  to  be  stronger. 


\X^e  knew  she  was  not  yet  to  go — 

Alas  !  the  little  while  was  fleeting — 
She  fed  a  robin  in  the  snow. 

She  kissed  us  for  a  New  Year's  greeting ; 
But  when  the  snowdrops  trembling  hung. 

Then  bowed  we  dumbly,  sorrow-laden, 
The  Angel  of  the  Lord  had  flung 

A  snow-white  robe  around  the  maiden. 


tr 


Mr.  Smythe  was  born  in  the  Moravian  settlement 
of  Gracehill,  in  county  Antrim,  Ireland,  on  the 
twenty-seventh  of  December,  1861,  the  anniversary, 
by  the  way,  of  the  death  of  Charles  Lamb.  Some 
of  his  early  experiences  are  reflected  in  a  number  of 


ALBERT  E.  S.  SMYTH E. 


349 


his  poems,  but  at  the  ajj^e  of  ten  he  was  in  the  town 
of  Ballymena,  where  he  remained  till  1876..  "The 
atmosphere  of  Ballymena,"  he  says,  "is  favorable 
to  poetry,  and  many  a  local  singer  is  embalmed  in 
the  memory  of  the  district,  and  chief  among  them, 
perhaps,  is  Davie  Harbison,  the  bard  of  Dunclug. " 
Education  in  the  National  Schools  is  not  very  ad- 
vanced, but  it  is,  at  any  rate,  thorough^.  Going  to 
Belfast,  the  commercial  metropolis  and  now  the  lar- 
gest city  in  Ireland,  he  learned  a  little  and  taught  a 
little  and  contracted  that  appreciation  of  transatlan- 
tic ways  which  Belfast  more  than  any  other  British 
city  is  calculated  to  inspire.  1884  proved  a  peculiar 
year  in  many  ways  for  him,  love  and  death  and 
heaven  and  earth  and  the  mysteries  of  life  all 
seemed  to  present  themselves  at  once,  and,  without 
any  idea  of  running  away,  emigration  seemed  to 
suggest  a  solution  of  the  problems. 

A  very  valuable  friendship  inaugurated  in  1882 
during  a  visit  to  the  vScotch  lakes  with  an  Illinois 
gentleman,  gave  the  direction  to  his  travels,  and  he 
first  tasted  the  sweets  of  American  hospitality  at  the 
Christmas  season  among  the  fertile  farms  of  McLean 
county,  A  business  engagement  in  Chicago  fol- 
lowed, and  until  1887  he  learned  to  look  on  the 
wonderful  western  city  as  a  second  home.  The 
spirit  of  unrest,  however,  again  manifested  itself  and 
we  next  find  him  in  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  filling  an 
im  lortant  engagement  and  adding  a  little  more  to 
his  cosmopolitan  S3'mpatbies.      His  connection  with 


"I 


;i     ! 


1  ,• 

i 

'    i^' 

r- 

j- 

\        II 

i        : 

i| 

f  ji. 

\iM 

i. 

If 

3SO 


A  CULSTFR  OF  POETS. 


the  choir  of  the  celebrated  St.  Giles'  Cathedral  was 
one  of  the  pleasantest  experiences  of  that  time,  and 
the  constant  contact  with  the  broad  and  liberul  ten- 
dencies of  Dean  Cameron  Lees  during  that  period, 
he  considers  one  of  the  most  valuable  educative 
influences  of  his  life.  With  the  Dean  there  is  neither 
Jew  nor  Gentile,  bond  or  free,  male  or  female,  all 
are  one  in  the  divine  body.  In  Edinburgh  he  also 
first  became  acquainted  with  the  teachings  of  Occult- 
ism and  of  the  Theosophical  Society,  which  he 
subsequently  joined  and  which  he  says  has  been  a 
guide  and  stay  to  him  ever  since.  In  1889  he  sailed 
to  Canada,  where  he  arrived  in  due  time.  That  he 
sincerely  loved  Scotland  may  be  readily  inferred 
from  the  following  sonnet  which  he  composed  when 
leaving  it: 

F.VENING   LARK   vSONG. 

At  a  niral  railway  station  en-roiite  to  Glas|tfow,  lea\'inEr 
Scotland,  9  p.  in.,  20th  May,  iRS^. 

There's  the  last  lark  in  Scx)tland  \     Hear  him  pour 
His  sweet  enchantment  on  the  quiet  air — 
A  benedietion  or  a  vesper  prayer, 

Or  praise  for  all  the  gladness  gone  before. 

Still  there  is  light  to  sing  and  light  to  soar 
And  all  the  glowing  wester  1  heavens  wear 
Gold  promise  of  the  morrow.     Does  he  dare 

Exultantly  rejoice  for  gifts  in  stone  ? 

While  I,  with  heart  more  like  the  shamefast  flower 
That  grows  beside  his  nest  and  shuts  its  eye 

Ere  daylight  fades,  dreading  the  sunset  hour, 

Leave  these  bright  Scottish  years  and  each  dear  tie, 


athedral  was 
at  time,  and 
liberul  ten- 
that  period, 
le  educative 
2re  is  neither 
r  female,  all 
irg-h  he  also 
gs  of  Occiilt- 
■,  which  he 
;  has  been  a 
589  he  sailed 
e.  That  he 
lily  inferred 
iposed  when 


ALBERT  E.  S.  SMYTHE. 


35r 


leaxTusr 


nn  pour 


ir 
iare 


pt  flower 
jye 


:h  dear  tie. 


Faces    of    friends,    kind    hands,    wami    hearts — IvOve's 
dower, 
Unthrifte<l,  yet  secure,  while  Time  rolls  by. 

Mr.  Smythe  has  since  resided  in  Toronto.  Here 
we  must  take  our  leave  of  him  althouj^^h  not  without 
according;  him  our  best  wishes  for  his  continued 
prosperity  in  commercial  and  literary  ventures.  He 
has  a  mission  to  fill  in  life  and  we  feel  very  confi- 
dent that  if  he  will  continue  to  devote  his  spare 
moments  to  the  cultivation  and  exercise  of  his  poeti- 
cal faculties  he  will  ultimately  produce  poetry  that 
will  entitle  him  to  rank  among  the  most  prominent 
Canadian  poets.  We  have  not  touched  upon  his 
religious  musings  but  we  conclude  with  one  of  his 
religious  sonnets,  leaving  the  reader  to  judge  for 
himself  of  the  merit  of  his  work  in  this  direction: 

DEATH  THE  REVEALER. 

I  know  that  death  is  God's  interpreter  ; 

His  quiet  voice  makes  gracious  meanings  clear 

In  grievous  things  that  vex  us  deeply  here 
I^tween  the  cradle  and  the  sepulchre. 
We,  gazing  into  darkness  greatly  err, 

And  fear  the  shrouded  shadow  of  a  fear 

Till  dawn  reveals  the  vestments  of  a  Seer 
With  gifts  of  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrhh. 
There  is  a  mystery  I  cannot  read 

Around  the  mastery  I  no  more  dread  ; 
For  love  is  but  a  heart  to  brood  and  bleed, 

And  life  is  but  a  dream  among  the  dead 
Whose  wisdom  waits  for  us,     God  give  me  heed 

Till  the  day  break  and  shadows  alJ  be  fled  .' 


WILLIAM   ANDERSON. 


Ill 


In  business  a  mechanic,  a  manufacturer  and  a 
merchant;  in  public  life,  a  soldier  in  the  state  and  in 
the  Civil  War;  an  enthusiastic  member  of  the 
G.  A.  R. ;  an  Alderman  in  the  city  of  Auburn  1876-7 
and  Superintendent  of  Charities  for  six  years;  Chief 
of  the  Auburn  Caledonian  Club  for  several  terms; 
President  of  the  North  American  United  Caledonian 
Association  for  one  term  and  Secretary  of  the  same 
for  four  terms;  add  to  this  that  Mr.  Anderson  is  a  true 
son  of  song  and  has  written  some  very  excellent 
poetry  and  we  have,  in  outline,  the  record  of  a  man 
who  may  justly  be  termed  a  representative  Scot  in 
American. 

Mr.  Anderson  was  born  at  Duntocher,  Dumbar- 
tonshire, Scotland,  on  the  8th  of  March,  1836,  He 
came  to  America  in  1853  and  has  since  resided  in 
Auburn,  N,  Y.  At  present  he  holds  the  position  of 
Clerk  to  the  Water  Board. 

In  1867  he  married  Margaret  Allen  Dyer,  the 
grand  daughter  of  Robert  Allen,  the  Kilbarchan  poet, 
and  a  very  worthy  woman  in  all  respects.  They 
have  a  family  of  four  sons  and  one  daughter. 

As  a  poet  Mr.  Anderson  receives  honorable  men- 
tion in  Dr.  Peter  Ross'  latest  work,  "The  Scot  in 
America."  He  has  written  quite  a  number  of  what 
may  be  called  National  pieces  (such  as  "  Old  Glory  ") 


e 


ir/L  A  LI  M  A  N  PERSON. 


353 


A. 


Jturer  and  a 
I  state  and  in 
iber  of  the 
nbiirn  1876-7 

years;  Chief 
veral  terms; 
d  Caledonian 

of  the  same 
jrson  is  a  true 
ery  excellent 
)rd  of  a  man 
itive  Scot  in 


that  have  attracted  attention  all  over  the  country. 
His  Scottish  pieces  arc  full  of  patriotism  and  deep 
feelinj^  and  all  of  them  have  the  genuine  ring  of  the 
poet  in  their  composition.  "  Whatever  merit  any  of 
my  efforts  may  possess."  writes  Mr.  Anderson,  "  it  is 
certain  that  those  which  has  given  me  the  greatest 
pleasure  are  the  poems  I  have  written  of  the  happy 
meetings  I  have  had  from  year  to  year  at  the  Con- 
ventions of  the  N.  A.  U.  C.  A.  such  as  the  "Great 
Caledonian  Raid,"  "The  Gathering  Day,"  "The 
Opening  of  the  Mine,"  etc. 

Mr,  Anderson  has  frequently  been  advised  to  is.sue 
his  poems  in  book  form  and  contemplates  doing  so 
at  an  earlv  date.  Thev  are  certainly  well  worthv  of 
being  placed  before  the  public  in  this  permanent 
form.      Here  are  a  few  specimens; 


T.   Dumbar- 

,  1836.     He 

|e  resided  in 

position  of 

Dyer,  the 
irchan  poet, 
jcts.  They 
Iter. 

arable  men- 
^he  Scot  in 
ki*  of  what 
)ld  Glory  ") 


OLD   GLORY. 

A  song  to  the  flag  of  onr  country  we  rai.se 

The  grandest  ere  vaunted  in  song  or  in  story. 
Thou  emblem  of  Freedom  ;  our  lips  sinj;  thy  praise 
And   our  hearts'  full   devotion,  we  pledge  thee,  Old 
Glory. 
The  sun,  in  his  course,  sees  none  braver  than  thee  ; 

The  breezes  of  Heaven  kiss  none  that  is  fairer. 
And  where'er  thy  proud  folds  float,  by  land  or  by  sea. 
All  beneath,  in  thy  glory  and  power  become  sharer. 
Our  hands  will  defend  thee,  our  tongues  tell  thy 

story. 
Our  hearts  aye  will    cherish   and  love  thee,  f)ld 
Glory. 


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354 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETR 


yiii 


A  salute  to  the  flag  of  the  "  Stripes  and  the  Stars," 

The  bravest,  the  fairest,  the  proudest  in  story, 
In  the  forefront  of  battle,  in  freedom's  just  wars, 
Firm  hands  and  bold  hearts  aye  hath  borne  thee.  Old 
Glory. 
O'er  the  clouds  at  Lookout,  with  the  hosts  of  the  free  ; 
At  Vicksburg,  triumphant,  thou  shone  in   thy  splen- 
dor ; 
At  grand  Gettysburg,  on  the  "  March  to  the  Sea." 
Until  treason  bowed  down  unto  thee,  in  surrender. 
Our  hands  will  «lcfend  thee,  our  tongues  tell  thy 

story. 
Our  hearts  aye  will  cherish   and  love  thee,  Old 
Glory. 


tf 


A  toast  to  the  flag  of  the  red.  white  and  blue, 

In  peace,  as  in  war,  aye  the  matchless  in  story. 
May  ever  the  loyal,  the  brave  and  the  true, 

vStand  guard  to  defend  and  preserve  thee,  Old  Glorj'. 
And  beneath  thy  dear  folds  over  all  our  fair  land. 

From  ocean  to  ocean,  o'er  mountain  and  river. 
May  all  dwell  united,  a  patriot  band, 
And  Freedom  and  Justice  and  Peace  reign  forever. 

Our  hands  will  defend  thee,  our  tongues  tell  thy 

story. 
Our  hearts  aye  will   cherish   and  love  thee.  Old 
Glorv. 


THERE'S  NAE   LAND   LIKE  AULD  SCOTLAND. 


*.t 


I. 

There's  nae  land  like  fair  Scotland, 
Her  vales  sae  bonnie,  hills  sae  hie  ; 

There's  nae  lanrl  like  Auld  Scotland — 
The  battlefield  o'  liberty. 


II 7A  A  LLV  A  XD/iA'SOX. 


355 


love  thee,  Old 


ove  tliee,  Old 


OTLAND. 


For  there,  in  days  o'  yore,  proud  Rome 

First  met  a  foe  knew  no  retreat. 
And  fields  o'  L,args  and  Hannockburn 

To  Freedom's  foes  brought  sore  defeat. 

Chorus — There's  nae  land,  etc. 

II. 
There's  nae  flowers  like  Scotia's  flowers, 

The  bonnie  bluebell,  waving  free  ; 
The  primrose  and  the  buttercup. 

And  sweet  wee  daisies  deck  the  lea. 
And  whaur's  a  flower  sae  bauld  and  Strang 

As  Scotia's  thi.stle  rears  its  head? — 
Ye  loons  wha  ettel  vScotland  wrang 

Ye  daunia  on  her  thistle  tread  ! 

Chorus — There's  nae  flowers,  etc. 

III. 
There's  nae  sings  like  auld  Scotch  sangs 

To  cheer  the  heart  when  we  are  sad — 
To  whisjjer  true  love's  melting  tale, 

To  voice  our  joys  when  we  are  glad. 
And  want  ye  sangs  to  nerve  the  arm 

And  fire  the  soul  that  wad  be  free, 
Then  "  Scots  wha  hae  "  and  "  Stirling  Bridge," 

Are  trumpet  tongues  o'  liberty  ! 

Chorus — There's  nae  sangs,  etc. 

IV. 
There's  nae  men  like  Scottish  men. 

In  battle  brave,  in  friendship  true  ; 
When  duty,  or  when  country  calls, 

••  Aye  ready  !"  they  to  dare  and  <lo. 
And  whaur's  the  lassies  like  oor  ain  ? 

The  warld  owre  there's  nane  we  ken 
Sae  Ixmnie,  gude — sjie  fit  to  1^ 

The  wives  ar.d  mithers  o  sic  men  ! 

Ckonis — There's  nae  men,  etc. 


I    ; 


356 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


WE'RE  A'   DAFT. 

We're  a'  daft,  we're  a'  daft, 

Sonle  wantin'  warp,  some  wantin'  waft. 

Some  temper'd  hard,  some  temper'd  saft, 

Some  crack't,  some  bent, 
But  ane  an'  a'  we're  a'  daft, 

To  some  extent. 


\\  \ 


%\ 


In  proof  that  my  assertion's  true, 
Juist  pass  mankind  in  brief  review  ; 
Tak'  heathen,  Christian,  Gentile,  Jew, 

A'  class  an'  craft. 
As  scon's  their  mainspring  meets  )'our  view, 

Ye'll  see  they're  daft. 

Let's  wi'  the  great  o'  earth  begin, 

Pope,  Emp'ror,  Prince  or  Sovereign  King  ; 

To  rule  by  Right  Divine's  the  spring 

O'  a'  King-craft — 
A  monstrous  lie  !  to  which  they  cling, 

An'  mak's  them  daft. 

The  crafty  statesman  plots  an'  schemes. 
To  guide  the  flow  o'  human  streams  ; 
Power,  fame  an'  fortune  are  his  dreams ; 

He  drinks  the  draught. 
Which  promises  but  ne'er  redeems — 

He  too  is  daft. 

An'  priests  o'  every  name  an'  creed. 
Presume  to  know,  to  teach  to  lead, 
To  punish,  to  absolve — indeed, 

The  haill  priestcraft 
Wad  fain  to  Heaven's  power  succeed  ; 

They're  unoo'  daft. 


WILLIAM  ANDERSON. 


357 


Araft, 

1  saft, 

k't,  some  bent, 

fcteut. 


w, 

'  craft, 
ur  view, 
ley'ie  daft. 


King ; 

craft — 

r 
»i 

hem  daft, 
es, 

ns; 

le  draught, 

Ft. 


The  rich  man  wi'  his  bonds  an'  stocks, 
Banks,  railroads,  steamships,  mines  and  docks, 
Wi'  fears  an  failures  get  sic  shocks. 

His  brain  grows  saft, 
An'  syne  ahint  some  Bedlam's  locks 

Stan's  ravin'  daft. 


The  man  wha  boasts  his  pedigree, 
An'  wad  look  doon  on  you  or  me, 
Because  we  hae  nae  family  tree. 

Has  never  quaff'd 
The  wine  o'  human  liberty — 

He's  just  clean  daft. 

In  every  land,  in  every  age. 

At  every  hero,  saint  an'  sage, 

Whase  name  illumines  History's  page, 

The  warld  has  laugh 'd 
To  see  them  acting  on  life's  stage, 

VVhyles  waur  than  daft. 

But  baud  ye  there  ;  tho'  this  be  true, 
Talc'  ye  nae  pessimistic  view  ; 
All's  for  the  best,  truth  will  accrue  ; 

The  years  will  waft 
The  better  sense,  and  love  subdue 

What  dings  us  daft. 


estcraft 


'  daft. 


The  grandest  soul  o'  a'  his  time, 

Rob  Burns,  wha  set  these  words  in  rhyme — 

"  To  mak'  a  happy  fireside  clime, 

For  weans  an'  wife, 
That's  the  true  pathos  an'  sublime 

O'  human  life." 


3JS 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Nae  sweeter  lines  e'er  flowed  frae  pen, 
Nae  grander  thocht  than  this  we  ken  ; 
Yet  he  wha  wrote  sae  wiselj',  when 

He  wasna'  chaiT'd, 
Was  aften  juist  like  ither  men — 

A  wee  bit  daft. 

We're  a'  daft,  we're  a'  daft, 

Some  wantin'  warp,  sotne  wantin  waft, 

Some  temper'd  hard,  some  temjxjr'd  saft. 

Some  crack 't,  some  bent, 
But  ane  an'  a'  we're  a'  daft. 

To  some  extent. 


f-iv 


JAMIK'S  WEE   BACK   ROOM. 

There's  mony  places  tauld  aboot,  in  story  and  in  .song 

Made  famous  by  heroic  deeds  whaur  richt  has  owrecome 
wrong ; 

There's  places  'mang  the  mountain  taps,  and  ])y  the  sound- 
ing sea, 

That  lift  ye  up  and  fill  ye  wi'  their  ain  sublimity. 

But  this  wee  place  o'  which   I  sing,  'tis  neither  great  nor 

grand, 
Its  praises  ne'er  before's  been  sung,  nor  sounded  in  the  land ; 
And  yet  to  mony   honest  hearts,    'twill  pleasure  bring  to 

croon. 
Recalling  happy  mem'ries  o'  Jim  Longwill's  wee  back  room. 

This  wee  back  room  o'  Jamie's,  sae  cosy  an'  far  ben, 
'Twill  only  hand,  when  in't  himsel',  aboot  a  dizzen  men  ; 
But,  oh,  sic  men  as  here  ye'll  meet  that  come  frae  far  and 

nigh  ! 
There's  nane  frequent  this  wee  back  room  but  what's  the 

''rale  Mackayr 


ill, 
11 ; 

chaiT'd, 
Llaft. 


aft, 

I  saft, 

k't,  some  bent, 

stent. 

.1. 

ui  in  son^ 

it  has  owreconie 

id  by  the  sound- 

nity. 

;ither  great  nor 

ded  in  the  land ; 
easure  bring  to 

wee  back  room. 

ar  ben, 
dizzen  men  ; 
ne  frae  far  and 

but  what's  the 


WILLIAM  AXnilRSOX. 


359 


Will  Shakespeare  siiid,  lang  time  ago,  "  The  very  walls  have 

ears  ; " 
If  that  be  sae,  then  whatna  tales  these  wa's  hae  heard  for 

years ! 
And,  carrying  fancy  further,  if  they  had  a  tongue  as  well. 
Then,  oh,  what  unco'  stories  this  wee  room  wad  hae  to  tell  ! 

What  curlin,  and  what  quoitin'  ploys  hae  often  been  here 

plann'd  ! 
What  happy  nieetin's  here  o'  freens  lang  pairtit  in  the  land  ; 
What  i)oliticians  here  hae  focht,  and  richtit  a'  the  wrangs  ! 
And  here  wee  Dugald  Cockbuni,  aft  has  sung  his  sweetest 

sangs. 

Here  Smiddy Jock,  and  Fairnier  J<»ck,  "in  perfect  health," 

thegither, 
Wi'  Collier  Tam.  and  Weaver  Sam,  hae  toasted  ane  anither  ; 
Here  Border  Willie,  fu'  o'  fun,  wi'  Rhyming  Wull's  sat  doon. 
To  hae  a  swap  o'  jokes  and  cracks,  in  this  wee  cosy  room. 

Haun,  frae  the  Hielands,  Printer  John,  Van  Cleef,  learned  in 

the  law, 
Carlyie,  and  Sinclair,  liowery  Tom,  gle  this  wi'  room  a  ca'; 
McKnight  and  Stevens,  Mitchell,  Booth,  Case,  Irving,  Rose 

and  Moore. 
Aft  meet  and  spend  in  this  wee  room  fu'  mony  a  happy  o'or. 

To  name  the  feck  o'  Jamie's  freens  wad   mak  a  list  owre 

lang— 
They  couldna  a'  be  mentioned  in  the  compass  o'  my  sang  ; 
But  every  honest,  social  chiel  wha's  ever  here  sat  doon. 
May  rest  content,  his  name's  weel  keut,  in  Jamie's  wee  Ixick 

room. 

I  cannot  here  resist  the  temptation  to  in.sert  one 
more   specimen   of   Mr.  Anderson's   muse,   a  piece 


?A» 


/i   CLUSTER  OF  l\)ETS. 


in 


composed  last  summer  and  which  now  appears  in 
print  for  the  first  time.  It  is  a  noble  song  in  honor 
of  Old  Scotland  ;  grand,  patriotic,  dignified  and 
inspiring.  It  is  one  of  Mr.  Anderson  s  best  produc- 
tions and  is  certainly  well  worthy  of  a  prominent 
place  in  this  volume. 

SCOTLAND   FOREVER. 

Oh  ;  Scotia,  the  land  never  tro<l  by  a  slave, 
Made  free  by  the  blood  of  a  martyr  and  yeoman. 
Where  the  tyrant  invader  ne'er  found  but  a  grave, 
Where  a  traitor  is  held  to  be  doubly  a  foetnan, 
The  land  of  our  sires,  our  own  dearly  loved  land, 
Aye  ours  to  remain,  mountain,  valley  and  river, 
All  her  rights,  as  of  yore,  we'll  maintain  sword  in  hand. 
Our  motto  and  watchword  be  "  Scotland  Forever." 
Scotland  Forever  ;  Aye  Scotland  Forevea 
Our  motto  and  watchword  be,  Scotland  F'orever. 

When  Northern  hordes,  under  "  Haco,"  their  king 
From  their  war-ships  had  landed  our  conquest  intending. 
They  found,  erst,  at  Largs,  how  Scotch  thistles  could  sting. 
Their  own  soil  from  the  tread  of  the  tyiant  defending. 
And  the  mid-night  surprise  of  our  camp — as  they  planned, 
Met  such  brave  repulse,  foiled  their  boldest  endeavor, 
'Gainst  the  sweep  of  our  broadswords   no  foeman  could 

stand. 
Whilst  the  cry  of  the  victors  was  "  Scotland  Forever." 
Scotland  Forever ;  Aye  Scotland  Forever, 
The  cry  of  the  victors  was  Scotland  Forever. 

And  again,  with  tne  might  of  all  England,  arrayed. 
When  Edward,  his  barons  and  knights — famed  in  story, 
With  ten  times  ten  thousand,  marched  forth  to  invade, 
And  subvert  our  dear  land,  freedom,  honor  and  glory. 


IV IL  L  J  A  M  A  NDERSON. 


361 


On  th)-  banks,  Bannockburn,  they  were  stayed  by  "The 

Bruce," 
Who,  tho'  o'ermatched,  yet  scorned  he  to  falter  or  waver, 
And  that  red  field  he  won,  ere  his  "  bugles  sang  truce," 
And  his  broadswords  gave  freedom  to  Scotland  Forever, 
Scotland  Forever ;  Aye  Scotland  Forever, 
His  broadswords  gave  freedoui  to  Scotland  Forever. 

When  the  war-god  of  iVance,  in  the  height  of  his  power, 

Wrecking  dynasties ;  thrones  ;  making  nations  to  tremble; 

When  against  him,  the  dial  of  Time,  told  the  hour, 

For  the  forces  of  Order  and  Peace,  to  assemble. 

There,  at  dread  Waterloo,  in  the  heat  of  the  fray, 

Rode  the   famous   "Scots  Greys,"  in  a  charge  equalled 

never, 
And  the  valor  of  Scotia  helped  win  that  great  day, 
Inspired  by  the  slogan  of  *•  Scotland  Forever." 
Scotland  Forever ;  Aye  Scotland  Forever, 
Inspired  by  the  slogan  of  Scotland  Forever. 

Thus  aye  it  hath  been,  and  for  aye  it  shall  be, 
Asat"  Alma,"at"IvUcknow,"  "Quebec"  and  ''Corunna," 
In  defence  of  her  home,  or  her  rights  beyond  sea. 
Her  war-pipes  shall  aye  proclaim  Scotia's  hosannah, 
In  the  front  rank  of  progress  her  sons  will  aye  stand, 
For  right ;  and  for  truth,  and  all  manly  endeavour, 
And  God  will  protect  by  the  might  of  His  hand, 
And  bless  with  His  love  our  dear  Scotland  Forever. 
Scotland  Forever ;  Aye  Scotland  Forever, 
And  bless  with  His  love  our  dear  Scotland  Forever. 


'^^#€# 


im 

i/., 

1 

1 

■'1 

f 

„  '■' 

i 

•  i'.: 


CHARLES  REEKIE. 


I  ■: 


'•  Day  Dreams,"  a  volume  of  excellent  poetry,  by 
Mr.  Charles  Reekie,  of  Hoboken,  N.  J.,  is  one  of 
the  latest  contributions  to  the  poetical  literature  of 
our  time.  Mr.  Reekie  is  a  graceful  writer  of  poetry, 
and  many  of  his  compositions  are  far  above  the 
average  productions  usually  found  in  an  author's 
first  volume  of  poems.  He  is  patriotic  and  musical, 
thoughtful  and  gi-aphic,  while  a  deeply  pathetic  note 
seems  to  vibrate  through  all  of  his  musings,  thus 
adding  a  peculiar  charm  to  them  and  making  them 
delightful  and  instructive  reading.  *' Apart  from 
their  great  literary  merits,"  writes  Mr.  George  T. 
Leslie,  an  esteemed  teacher  in  the  old  school  where 
Mr.  Reekie  learned  his  A.  B.  C's,  *'  there  is  a  vigor- 
ous manly  ring  about  the  poems  which  can  only  be 
a  reflex  of  the  personal  character  of  the  writer. 
How  he  has  managed  during  so  long  a  residence  in 
his  adopted  country  to  preserve  *  the  mither  tongue, ' 
is  to  me  wonderful  indeed."  I  have  gone  very  care- 
fully over  "Day  Dreams"  and  it  has  certainly 
pleased  me  greatly.  Among  the  poems  that  I  have 
a  preference  for  are  "The  Hame  Where  I  was 
Bom,"  '♦  Nellie  Graham,"  **  Gae  Bring  to  me  a  Heath- 
er Bell,"  "Lines  on  the  Birthday  of  Robert  Bums," 
"Columbia,"  "Fair  Belmar  by  the  Sea,"  "The 
Scottish  Shepherd,"  "  In  a  Dream  of  the  Night "  and 


CJHh*Ll':S  REEKIL. 


Jdj 


it  poetry,  by 
J.,  is  one  of 
literature  of 
:er  of  poetry, 
tr  above   the 
an   author's 
and  musical, 
pathetic  note 
nusings,  thus 
making  them 
•Apart  from 
r.  George  T. 
school  where 
>re  is  a  vigor- 
1  can  only  be 
f  the  writer, 
residence  in 
ither  tongue,' 
me  very  carc- 
las    certainly 
that  I  have 
Vhere  I  was 
o  me  a  Heath- 
obert  Bums," 
Sea,"    ''The 
le  Night  "and 


"In  Memory  of  John  Reid."  Did  space  permit  I 
would  like  to  (juote  fnjm  a  few  of  the  many  press 
notices  that  have  appeared  in  favor  of  Mr.  Reekie's 
book,  and  I  really  regret  very  much  that  I  am  com- 
pelled to  refrain  from  doing  so.  They  have  all 
accorded  it  a  welcome  that  is  both  satisfactory  and 
gratifying.  Mr.  Reekie  is  a  native  of  Scotland,  bom 
and  reared  on  the  estate  of  Carphin  in  Fifeshire. 
He  has  been  forty-five  years  in  this  country  and  as 
an  architect  has  acquired  considerable  eminence  in 
his  profession.  He  has  made  several  visits  to  the 
land  of  his  birth  and  each  of  these  visits  seems  to 
have  inspired  him  to  undertake  greater  flights  in  the 
realm  of  poesy.  But  he  is  a  voluminous  writer  and 
his  muse  readily  alights  on  various  subjects.  The 
following  are  a  few  specimens: 

THE  HAME  WHERE   I  WAS   BORN. 

Oh,  for  an  hour  in  yon  wee  bower 

That  lay  ayont  the  corn, 
Or  a  keek  again,  through  the  window  pane, 

Of  the  hame  where  I  was  born  ! 

Oh  for  a  glint  of  the  auld  gray  hills, 

That  rang  with  the  harvest  horn. 
And  a  touch  of  the  hand  that  woke  me  there, 

In  the  hame  where  I  was  born  ! 

Oh  for  a  nicht  wi'  the  auld  lamp  licht, 

Or  an  hour  of  the  simmer  morn. 
To  hear  the  breeze  amang  tlie  trees, 

Around  where  I  was  born  ! 


T^ 


:!»'        I     V 


3^4 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


Oh  for  the  mirth  of  the  auld  stane  hearth, 
When  the  uarvest  rigs  were  shorn, 

And  the  guid  auld  sang,  when  the  rafters  rang, 
In  the  hame  where  I  was  born  ! 


Oh  for  a  note  frae  the  lintie's  throat, 

That  sang  in  the  auld  hawthorn, 
Or  the  robin's  trill  on  the  window  sill. 

Of  the  hame  where  I  was  born  ! 

Oh  the  memries  there  of  the  hamely  prayer, 

That  no  scoffer  dared  to  scorn  ! 
But  the  voice  has  gane  frae  the  auld  hearthstane. 

In  the  hame  where  I  was  bom  ! 

NELUE  GRAHAM. 

I  oft  again,  in  fancy's  dream. 

Revisit  youth's  auld  hame. 
And  linger  there  by  wood  and  stream. 

Where  I  wooed  Nellie  Graham  ; 


And  roam  the  paths  we  loved  of  old, 

Amang  the  yellow  whins. 
O'er  mossy  braes  of  russet  gold. 

Up  whaur  the  glen  begins ; 

And  list  the  sound  of  summer  bells, 
Across  the  heath's  perfume. 

With  skylark  ringing  in  the  dells. 
And  Unties  in  the  broom  ; 

And  live  again  those  hours  of  bliss, 
In  groves  without  a  name, 

And  touch  again  with  burning  kiss 
The  lips  of  Nellie  Graham. 


CHARLES  REEKIE. 


3^5 


rs  rang, 


lyer, 
irthstane, 


tn, 


But  now  the  skylark's  song  is  o'er, 

The  lintie's  voice  is  tame. 
And  my  fond  lips  will  touch  no  more 

The  cheeks  of  Nellie  Graham. 

And  love's  young  harp  is  silent  now 

In  that  deserted  hame, 
While  death's  cold  frost  is  on  the  brow 

Of  my  lost  Nellie  Graham. 

OAK  BPING  TO  ME  A  HEATHER  BELI.. 

Gae  hring  to  me  a  heather  l)ell, 

Across  the  deep  blue  sea, 
A  token  of  iry  native  dell 

Of  Scotland  ere  I  dee. 

Gae  bring  it  frae  my  native  shore, 
Kroi.1  youth's  immortal  shrine. 

And  let  it  thrill  iuy  benrt  once  more 
With  dreams  of  auld  lang  syne. 

Oh  !  bring  it  frae  my  native  hills, 

Flower  oi  my  native  sky, 
A  blossom  from  the  mountain  rills 

To  bless  my  latest  sigh. 

And  whei;  my  heart  has  gaen  to  rest 
With  one  fond  breathed  farewell, 

Then  lay  it  on  my  silent  breast. 
Dear  Scotland's  heather  bell ! 

I.INES  ON  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Awake  the  lyre  with  music  and  with  song. 

Strike  the  wild  harp,  and  roll  the  anthem  forth 
From  distant  isles,  where  tropic  suns  are  known, 


366 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


'■;m 


Hi 


ill 


ii 


Back  to  the  regions  of  the  "  starry  north." 
Ten  thousand  tongues  swell  out  the  jubilee, 

Ten  thousand  lips  the  chorus  grand  encore, 
And  send  it  flashing  underneath  the  sea, 

And  roll  it  onward  still  from  shore  to  shore. 

Awake  the  echoes  of  old  Scotland's  hills, 
Where  blooming  heath  her  rugged  cliflFs  adorn, 

Aiid  bring  us  music  from  her  silver  rills, 
To  hail  the  day  her  "  poet  king  was  born  ;  " 

And  let  us  honor  her  immortal  dead, 
And  hang  the  laureate's  wreath  upon  his  tomb. 

While  fancy  lingers  in  the  classic  shade 

Beside  the  waters  of  old  rippling  Doon. 

« 

No  banners  waved  from  city's  glittering  domes. 

No  marshaled  pomp,  nor  thunder  peal  is  heard, 
Nor  tinseled  crowds,  around  earth's  gilded  thrones. 

Awaits  the  coming  of  the  peasant  bard. 
Not  from  the  mighty  on  the  scrolls  of  fame. 

Not  from  the  sires  that  blaze  their  names  on  high. 
That  humble  shieling  gives  the  world  a  name 

That  will  not  perish  till  the  nations  die  ! 

He  touched  the  chords  that  thrill  the  human  heart. 

That  makes  man  kith  and  kin  in  every  clime. 
And  sung  that  rank  was  but  the  gild  of  art, 

That  honest  manhood  only  was  divine. 
Strike  the  wild  harp  !  with  music  and  with  song 

Awake  the  echoes  as  the  day  returns  ! 
And  send  the  swelling  anthem  rolling  on 

To  hail  the  day  that  gave  us  Robert  Burn.s  \ 

COLUMBIA. 

Columbia  dear ;  child  of  the  ages^  thou 
Hast  much  to  reckon  with  the  age  to  be  : 


LlJ 


CHARLES  REEKIE. 


3^7 


Long  may  the  crown  of  justice  wreath  thy  brow- 
Right  not  might,  the  standard  on  each  prow 

That  bears  ihy  starry  flag  from  sea  to  sea  ; 
Nor  cancerous  envy  warp  thy  native  power, 
Nor  craven  bhister  e'er  bequeath  its  dower, 

But  as  thine  eagle,  may  thy  heart  be  free  ! 

FAIR  BELMAR-BY-THE-SEA. 

I've  stood  upon  the  bounding  deck 

Where  ocean  tempests  roar, 
And  heard  the  Arctic  thunders  break 

On  Greenland's  icy  shore ; 
I've  watched  the  golden  sunset  gleam 

Ac-oss  the  tropic  lea. 
But  the  greenest  spot  on  memory's  dream 

Is  Belmar-by-the-Sea. 

I've  roamed  alone  through  pathless  glades 

Where  Indian  skies  are  clear, 
And  heard  tl:e  song  of  her  dusky  maids, 

In  the  vales  of  fair  Cashmere, 
And  dreamed  where  echo  still  enfolds 

The  Arabian  maiden's  glee ; 
But  the  fairest  scene  that  memory  holds 

Is  Belmar-bv-the-Sea. 


I've  heard  the  curfew  fading  still 

On  gloaming's  soft  decay, 
And  heard  the  flute-toned  bulbul  thrill 

The  wilds  of  far  Cathay ; 
But  sweeter  than  the  wildbird's  note, 

Fond  fancy  turns  to  thee, 
The  gem  of  nj.emories  unforgot — 

Fair  Belmar-by-the-Sea. 


368 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


1;' 


!  'il'   I 


IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  REID. 

And  thou  art  dead,  my  friend — 
Passed  like  a  breath  away  ; 
While  we  are  left  to  say, 

Is  this  the  end  ? 

And  thou  art  still,  great  heart  \ 
To  friendship  ever  leal ; 
While  we  in  sorrow  feel 

Thou  hast  the  better  part. 

Those  lips  are  silent  now  f 
Thy  life-long  deeds  remain 
With  neither  blush  nor  stain 

Upon  thy  brow. 

And  hearts  that  loved  thee  well 
Bow  'round  thy  silent  bier, 
To  drop  a  parting  tear. 

With  one  long,  sad  farewell. 

No  more  beneath  the  sun. 
In  busy  mart  or  street, 
We  hear  thy  tireless  feet  \ 

Thy  race  is  run. 

Had  early  fate  but  willed. 
Where  feebler  tongues  debate 
In  lofty  halls  of  state, 

Thou  mightst  have  thrilled  ! 

Or  worn  the  ermine  crown, 
Where  sculptured  bronze, 
With  lettered  scroll,  enthrones 

Deathless  renown. 


I       !P, 


,Vf 


CHARLES  REEKIE. 


D. 


3(»9 


But  faultless  Nature  drew, 

With  happier  mold, 

Thy  heart  of  gold. 
To  honor  ever  true. 

Oh,  fleeting  breath, 
Brief  as  the  taper  light. 
Quenched  in  the  starless  night, 

Of  unrelenting  death  ! 

True  friend  in  need, 

Thy  crown  is  won, 

Thy  race  is  run. 
Beloved,  lamented  Reid  ! 


REV.   DUNCAN  ANDERSON,  M.  A. 


!     'Ill  I 


The  Rev.  Duncan  Anderson,  M.  A.,  is  a  native 
of  Aberdeenshire,  having  been  born  in  the  parish 
of  Rayne  in  1828.  He  first  attended  the  old  Aber- 
deen Grammar  School  and  at  quite  an  early  age 
attended  King's  College  and  University.  He  was 
licensed  to  preach  in  1853  and  in  1854  left  Scotland 
and  settled  in  Levis,  Province  of  Quebec,  Canada.  For 
many  years  we  are  told  "he  was  Chaplain  to  the  Im- 
perial troops,  and  for  two  decades  he  occupied  the 
position  of  Presbytery  clerk,  fulfilling  the  duties  of 
the  oftlce  in  a  most  unexceptional  manner.  Mr. 
Anderson  is  also  known  far  and  wide  as  an  Ornithol- 
ogist of  fine  attainments,  and  the  labor  of  his  hands 
has  found  its  way  to  Kensington  Palace,  and  the 
castle  of  Inverary;  as  a  preacher  he  occupies  a  high 
place  among  the  divines  of  his  church,  his  sermons 
are  encircled  by  classical  allusion  and  their  literary 
finish  and  poetic  beauty  entitle  them  to  a  good  place 
among  the  pulpit  utterances  of  the  day." 

As  a  poet  Mr.  Anderson  is  entitled  to  high  honors. 
His  "  Lays  of  Canada,"  is  a  handsome  volume  and  a 
valuable  addition  to  Canadian  poetical  literature.  It 
certainly  contains  numerous  poems  of  great  beauty 
and  merit.  '*  His  writings  are  true  to  life  and  reach 
the  heart,"  says  one  of  his  critics.  In  particular,  his 
descriptive  poems  combine  a  great  clear  intellectu- 


REV.  DUNCAN  ANDERSON,  M.  A. 


37' 


ality,  combined  with  natural  refinement  of  soul  and 
tender  sensiblility.  He  is  evidently  a  man  of  high- 
toned  piety,  and  this,  with  his  fine  endowment  of 
feeling  and  aspiration,  makes  his  utterances  profit- 
able, as  they  are  pleasing. 

Dr.  Louis  Frechette  of  Montreal,  says  of  Mr. 
Anderson : 

"  A  man  of  great  learning,  a  fluent  talker,  endowed 
with  a  spirit  the  most  capacious  and  the  most  concil- 
iatory. Mr.  Anderson  is  one  of  the  most  sympathetic 
men  that  I  know.     .     . 

*'The  '  Lays  of  Canada  '  let  me  know  that  I  lived 
side  b}'  side  without  knowing  it,  with  an  original 
poet,  full  of  animation  and  intelligence  {de  verve  et  (V 
esprit).,  endowed  with  a  powerful  poetic  temperament, 
served  by  a  language  which  is  very  harmonious  and 
well  coloured.  Among  the  poems  I  would  partic- 
ularly refer  to  the  'Death  of  Wolf,'  a  picture  from 
the  hand  of  a  master. 

"  Mr.  Anderson  was  not  born  in  Canada;  but  no 
one  among  us  is  more  Canadian  than  he.  In  adopt- 
ing our  country  many  years  ago  he  cordially  espoused 
our  past,  our  glories  and  our  sorrows.  He  sings  our 
struggles  of  earlier  days  and  salutes  with  enthusiasm 
the  dawning  of  our  future. 

"With  him  there  is  no  cxclusiveness,  no  narrow- 
ness of  view,  no  prejudices  of  race.  If  he  acclaims 
the  illustrious  Conqueror  of  the  Plains  of  Abraham, 
he  does  respectful  obeisance  to  the  glorious  con- 
quered.    Not  one  vsyllable  in  all  this  poem,  is  calcu- 


37' 


A  CLUSTER  OF  FOE'IS. 


lated  to  wound  the  French  ear,  however  enthusiastic. 

'*  In  his  verses,  as  in  his  person  Mr.  Anderson  is 
courtesy  itself.  His  poetry  is  completely  himself, 
with  his  grace,  his  native  kindness,  and  his  delicately 
impressionable  nature.  The  '  Lays  of  Canada '  have 
their  place  in  all  Canadian  libraries,  and  their  author 
takes  his  place  in  the  first  rank  among  our  native 
poets.  I  am  happy  to  offer  him  my  hand  in  token  of 
the  most  cordial  welcome."  Mr.  Anderson's  latest 
work  is  a  volume  entitled  ** Scottish  Folk  Lore."  It 
is  an  excellent  prose  work  and  has  already  had  a 
large  sale. 

Following  are  three  specimens  of  his  muse : 


'; 


SONG. 

TO   BENNACHIE. 
Tunc  :    "  O  !  gin  I  war  whaur  Oadie  rins." 

I'm  weary  o'  the  guglue's  sang, 
And  a'  the  gaudy  feathered  thrang, 

And  would  ance  mair  I  war  aniang 
Thy  rocks,  bauld  Bennachie. 


Chorus:  -O  !  gin  I  war  whaur  clear  Don  rins, 
By  fair  Pitfichie's  gowden  whins, 
Whaur  tunefu'  linties  wauk  the  linns 
That  sing  to  Bennachie. 


My  ploughboy  soughs  but  foreign  tunes ; 

My  bairns  are  rocked  to  Frenchie  croons'  ; 
Ah !  would  that  I  could  hear  the  souns 

I've  heard  near  Bennachie. 


REV.  DUNCAN  ANDERSON.  M.  A. 


373 


Awa  !  vast  lakes,  proud  commerce'  throne  ; 

Awa  !  broad  streams  that  ships  sail  on  ; 
Mair  sweet's  to  me  the  wimpliu  Don 

That  rows  near  Bennachie. 

Fair  Fancy,  lend  your  son  your  wing, 
That  back  my  boyhood's  joys  can  bring, 

And  tune  my  lips  again  to  sing 
The  sangs  o'  Bennachie. 

And  when  this  heart  is  cauld  and  still  ; 

My  heart  unstrung  without  a  thrill ; 
Lay  there  ae  stane  fresh  frae  the  hil, 

A  stane  frae  Bennachie. 


TO   A   WHITE  CROWNED  SPARROW. 

SEEN   IN  A  SNOWSTORM  ON   2ND  DECEMBER     1895,    AT    MONY- 

MU.SK,    NEAR  QUEBEC. 

Sweet  little  birdie  cowrin'  low 

In  bed  of  crisp  and  cruel  snow, 
From  what  far  region  hast  thou  sped, 

Where  blizzards  fierce  are  born  and  bred, 
And  Boreals  blow  ? 

When  Indian  Summer  smil'd  with  glee, 
And  pour'd  its  warmth  o'er  mead  and  lea, 

Why  did  thy  laggard  wing  delay 
To  mount  the  sky,  and  hie  away 
To  flower  and  tree  ? 

Perchance  on  some  lone  Arctic  shore, 
Where  glaciers  frown  and  lichens  hoar 

Scarce  bloom,  the  dread  Jer  Falcon  came 
Thy  loving  mate  to  fiercely  claim, 
And  leave  thee  sore. 


37^ 


A  CLUSTER  OF  POETS. 


■-^'■;,l    ! 


Did  niem'ry  keep  thee  near  the  nest, 
Where  oft  in  summer  time  thy  breast 

Thy  nestlings  warned,  tiil  strong  of  wing, 
They  wandered  free  to  sport  and  sing, 
And  give  thee  rest? 

Or  didst  thou  linger  on  the  way, 
To  honour  Scotland's  festal  day ; 

The  merry  toast  and  dance  to  mark. 
And  men  aye  ready  for  their  wark 
At  feast  or  fray  ? 

Ah  !  hast  thou  seen  the  icy  pole. 

Where  storm  fiends  rave,  or  soft  waves  roll ; 
Hast  view'd  the  cairn  where  Franklin  sleeps, 

Or  where  brave  Hall,  tho'  dead,  yet  speaks, 
A  living  soul  ? 

Sweet  wand'ring  songster  hie  away, 
We  would  not  tempt  thee  here  to  stay  ; 

Hark  !  loud  the  northland  tempests  blow, 
Aud  high,  and  higher  drifts  the  snow 
O'er  dale  and  brae. 


Mh 


The  squirrel  seeks  his  nut-stored  tree, 
To  shelter  creeps  the  chick -a-dee, 

The  song  of  birds  is  heard  no  more, 
Lone  is  the  lake,  and  icebound  shore — 
No  home  for  thee. 


God  temper  then,  to  suit  thy  wing, 
Those  biting  winds  that  storm  clouds  bring, 

And  guide  thy  flight  to  sunnier  lands 
Where  welcomes  from  sweet  tuneful  bands 
Shall  round  thee  ring. 


REV.  DUNCAN  ANDERSON,  M.  A. 


375 


TO  A  SHEEP'S  HEAD  AND  TROTTERS. 

ST.    ANDREW'S  DAY,    1892. 

(DEDICATED  TO  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  ST.    ANDREW'S    SOCIETY, 

QUEBEC.) 

"  We'll  hae  nane  but  Hielan'  bonnets  here." 

Na  !  Na  !  nane  but  a  kinly  Scot 
Can  join  us  roun'  the  toothsome  pot 
That  frae  our  Patron  Saint  we  got 

In  days  of  old  ; 
Frae  guid  St.  Andrew,  sans  a  blot, 

Or  rust,  or  mould. 

It  may  be  true  that  when  we  stand. 
Ranked  for  the  foe  wi'  ready  brand, 
Leal  John  is  there  at  our  command. 

And  Paddy  bright, 
But  when  a  sheep's  head  is  on  hand, 

Wha  then 's  in  sight .? 

We  weel  may  boast  our  haggis  bauld, 
That  keeps  Scotch  stamacks  frae  the  cauld  ; 
But  pleasures  aft  are  twins  we're  tauld 

To  Peers  or  Cott'rs, 
And  some  new  Burns  may  frae  the  fauld 

Sing  "  Head  and  Trotters." 

Sae  leeze  me  on  your  honest  face ; 

Tho'  somewhat  grimed,  'tis  nae  disgrace ; 

Ye've  passed  like  mony  a  nobler  race. 

Thro'  scathin'  fires ; 
And  proud  are  Scotchmen  aft  to  trace 

Sae  in  their  sires — 


"I 


I;  I'r 


) 


hi  ) 


i!|  ■' 


4tt 

■in 


376 


A  CLUSTER  OF  WETS. 


Nae  doot  bold  Jason,  as  they  say, 
Wha  bore  the  "  Golden  Fleece  "  away, 
And  shared  Medea's  Wedding  Day, 

For  work  weel  sped, 
Refreshed  his  sair  forfon>?hten  clay 

Wi'  gnid  Sheep's  Head. 

And  Saul,  but  at  his  crimes  we  blanche  ! 

Wha  raided  cruel  Agag's  ranch. 

And  cleaned  him  out, — root, — stock, — and  branch, 

Made  Sanmel  wroth, 
Because  he  showed  a  love  prepense 

For  Sheep's  Head  broth. 

Sae  set  it  doon,  the  lordly  dish, 

That  bangs  them  a', — flesh, — foul,— and  fish, 

And  fills  a  Scotchman's  ev'ry  wish. 

However  great ; — 
Wha  douts  I'd  mak  the  Maiden  *  kiss  ; 

Puir  bladderscate. 

And  when  we've  pickt  the  juicy  banes. 
Till  they  be  bare  like  chuckie  stanes, 
And  cripples  m«»ist  could  stand  their  lanes, 

Then  up  as  ane, 
And  slug  like  mad, — Man, — Wife, — and  Weans — 

•'  God  Save  the  Queen." 

♦As  sheep-stealers  in  Scotland  were,  at  a  compara- 
tively recent  date,  executed  for  this  crime,  the  poet 
has  scarcely  availed  himself  of  poetical  license  when 
he  suggests  a  kiss  of  the  Maiden  (the  finisher  of 
political  treason  in  Scotland)  as  a  suitable  reward  to 
everyone  who  differs  in  opinion  or  taste  from  him- 
self with  regard  to  sheep's  head  and  trotters. 


wmm. 


ay, 


che ! 

, — and  brunch, 


-and  fish, 

iss ; 

les, 

'  lanes, 

and  Weans — 


t  a  com  par  a- 
le,  the  poet 
icense  when 
finisher  of 
le  reward  to 
5  from  him- 
tters. 


